Slytherella
by K.E.Degz
Summary: In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious foreign exchange student from Ilvermorny comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem... Rated M for later chapters. Told in multiple timezones.
1. Chapter 1

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. Nobody knows why she came from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts, especially after the Triwizard Tournament's events and Cedric Diggory's death. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Prologue**

* * *

The sounds of the clicking heels would seem nondescript to anyone other than Draco. But he knew that sound, for it had haunted his dreams for years, now. His heart beat fast, and Diagon Alley seemed to go quiet and loud all at once. He spun around and saw that glimpse of glimmering green. She still had the shoes.

She slowed, admiring the windows, and then stopped at Ollivander's. She was tall and lovely, in a fetching summer dress that hugged her slim waist, just as before, and Draco found himself walking towards her. _Don't_ , spoke his mind, _she wants nothing to do with you._ But the way she swayed in front of the wand shop, the way she then drew her wand and looked at it, held it… Did she sigh? Did he imagine it? Was she thinking the same thing he was?

There it was, in her caramel-colored hands: thirteen and three-quarters inches, blackthorn wood, dragon's heartstring. She still had the same wand, after all this time, after all that had happened. She was still holding it. Her left hand was bare; it was too much to ask that she still had it. She had been hurt too much, and Draco wouldn't have blamed her at all for not keeping it. He often wondered why she wore it for as long as she did.

Without realizing it how long he'd been staring, he looked up to meet her dark eyes. She didn't gasp, and neither did he. He gave a curt nod then turned away. The heels of her shoes clicked up behind him, and he turned at the sound of her voice, still as sweet and terrifying as he recalled.

"You threw me to the Death Eater's, once, and I don't get so much as a 'hello' from you?"

Merlin's Beard, she was gorgeous. She was always a pretty girl, of course, but she'd grown so stunning from age seventeen to twenty. Her round face, her beautiful skin freckled with dots like stars, her full lips painted red…

"Cat got your tongue?"

Draco smiled dismissively. "Sorry, Ella, I didn't think it was you." She rolled her eyes with a smile. "I thought you went back to America," he said.

"I thought _you_ were rotting in Azkaban with your father." His face twisted into a scowl. "I'm sorry. That was mean." There was a tense moment. "How've you been?"

Draco shrugged, without really giving an answer. "You?"

Ella nodded with a shrug, also without really giving an answer. "I heard you were getting married."

His face went white with shock. "Who told you that?"

Ella's eyebrow raised. "So it's true?" She smiled and nodded, pleased with herself, at very least, to still be able to read him the way she could. "To whom?"

He avoided her gaze and put his hand in his pocket, nonchalantly gesturing. "Nobody you'd know."

"It's not Pansy, is it?"

Draco shook his head.

"Thank God; I shudder at the thought of you two procreating." There was, yet another, very tense moment. "Someone we went to school with?" Draco gave her a somewhat nervous glance, almost asking her to stop. "You know, it's none of my business, but if you're so ashamed to say to whom you're engaged, you probably shouldn't be marrying them."

"Well, excuse me, your royal majesty, Queen of Morality—"

"Hey, hey, hey—don't you be turning that venom on me! I'm the wounded party here, remember?" They locked eyes, then looked away from each other. Ella sighed. "Goodbye, Draco." She turned on her heel and walked away.

 _Don't,_ he said to himself. _Don't be a coward again_. _Don't make the wrong choice_. "I wish it was you!" he all but shouted. Ella stopped dead in her tracks, her shoulders tense. Her head snapped around, her almond-shaped eyes peered in a combination of shock, anger, and disbelief.

"What?"

"I…" He sighed and came towards her. "Can we talk? Can I take you to lunch? Some tea? A butterbeer, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "I can't, I have a train to catch…"

"You can spare an hour."

"Draco, it's a _train_ —"

"And trains run on schedules, don't they? There will be another. Catch the next one. _Is_ there a next one?" A beat. "Please?"

A deeply annoyed frown crossed her face. She then puffed her bangs up off her forehead and took a look at her pocket watch. After a long pause, she nodded and said " _One_ hour. But if I miss the last train, you're paying for my hotel room in London."

"Agreed." He smiled and offered his arm, but she didn't take it. She walked next to him, but kept her eyes forward. He began to wonder why she didn't simply apparate to wherever it was she needed to go. She attempted to make idle conversation as they walked together.

"I wish that someone would take Florean Fortescue's place. What I wouldn't give for a taste of that fairy floss ice cream that he used to make…with lots and lots of whipped cream…"

 _For someone so bitter and salty_ , thought Draco, _she certainly has a sweet tooth_.

"You hate this place." she finally said as they reached the Leaky Cauldron.

"But you don't." He held the door open for her. She gave a smile and walked in.

They sat at a small table, in the corner. He ordered two butterbeers, and Ella asked if they had any of the sticky toffee pudding yet, or was it too early in the day for it. They brought it out in a steaming heap of cake and dates and custard. Ella took a bite, dabbed her red lips on the napkin, and said: "Why didn't you want me to know that you were engaged?"

Draco didn't answer.

"I suppose you're wanting that ring back?" A lump caught in his throat. "Well, you're not getting it. I don't even have it on me. So don't ask."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"What did you tell your mother?"

"She's gotten over it. My father says it's just as well."

"Because it's already been dirtied by a _Mudblood's_ finger, has it?"

"Ella!" gasped Draco, appalled that she'd say that word.

"Don't tell me that's not what he said." Draco looked away, ashamed. That was, in fact, exactly what he'd said. His mother had fainted when she'd found it gone, and threatened to disown Draco if he didn't get the ring back. He then felt Ella's hand on his. He looked up. "I'm sorry, okay? It's not your fault." She smiled. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I…" He cleared his throat. "I was curious as to what you were up to these days."

"It's my first day back from Brazil." She tucked a black curl behind her ear absentmindedly. "I've just come from Slug & Jigger's. They were interviewing for a spot as an apprentice, but I turned it down."

"Why? I thought you wanted to be a Potioneer."

"I do, just not there. At least, not yet. Professor Snape wanted me to continue my education as best I could. I spent a couple of years in Castelobruxo studying potions and herbs there. Have you ever been to Brazil? Portuguese is a fascinating language, and honestly quite hard to learn…thank goodness they spoke Spanish down there. English, too, but what's the point of travelling to a new place if you're not going to learn a bit of the language?"

"Oh." Draco fidgeted. It was so gauche to talk about money, but Ella didn't know that. She couldn't help it; she didn't have any. "How did you afford that?"

"Professor Snape left me everything in his will. I know, I was just as shocked as you. But I think that he knew his life was…" Her eyes welled a little, and she looked away. "Well, I don't think I'll ever starve, is what I'm saying."

"He left you _everything_?"

"He left me everything, right down to that threadbare sofa in the house in Cokeworth. I was on my way back there now."

"You live in _Cokeworth_?" Draco spoke the word as if it tasted like acid on his tongue.

Ella frowned. "What's wrong with Cokeworth?"

 _You shouldn't be in Cokeworth. You should be living in a palace on a hill._ "You're the brightest witch I know."

"So?"

"So, you're too good for Cokeworth. That place is filthy."

"If it was good enough for Professor Snape, it's good enough for me," argued Ella. "It's quiet and secluded and I rather like it."

"Excuse me, is this the same witch that would chew my ear off for two hours straight if she happened to get mud on her skirt?"

Ella leaned forward on her elbows. "Why don't you tell be about your fiancée? The mysterious one I'm not allowed to know about?"

He sighed. "Her name is Astoria Greengrass."

Ella guffawed. "You've _got_ to be kidding me—Daphne's little sister? Daphne, as in, Diet Pansy?"

"She's a pureblood. One of the last—"

"You settled for a junior version of a mean-girl cronie, all because she's a pureblood," said Ella, her face twisting a bit in a sneer. "Don't even, Draco, don't even start—you know that's the most-extraordinary thing about her because that's the first thing you said."

"Keeping up with your occlumency, I see?" shot Draco.

"No need for magic," said Ella. "After all this time, I can still read you like a book."

"Well if I could marry _you_ , I would have—"

Ella burst out into laughter so loud that caught the attention of every patron in the Leaky Cauldron. "Who the hell are you trying to fool with that one?"

"Keep your voice down, you bloody yank!" he whispered angrily. "You don't understand."

"You're right, Draco, I _don't_ understand. I don't understand who is stopping you from living your life at this point. I don't understand how you can sit high and mighty on that pureblood throne and still defend your actions after everything. I don't understand how, after all the horrible things that your father put you through, all the pain he caused you, how you can still sit there and pretend like what he thinks of you matters anymore. Above all, I don't understand how you can sit there and lie to me, still, after all this time about how you would choose me, when at every test, you didn't."

Her voice cracked. Suddenly, he wasn't aware of those that might be staring, the people that might put this scandal in the Daily Prophet the next morning. 'Malfoy Heir seen with Muggleborn Ex-Lover in Public House.' He moved his hand to touch her face. "Ella," he all but whispered, his voice full of every emotion he'd ever felt all at once.

She sighed and went cold again. "Congratulations on your engagement to your beautiful bride." She stood and brushed off her skirt. "Thank you very much for the butterbeer, the toffee pudding, and for reminding me of what I am definitely not missing. I wish you many years of happiness and fat babies."

She turned on her heel and stormed out, head held high, her long hair flying behind her. He tried calling after her, but she was already gone. He dropped a handful of galleons on the table and left. Three days later, he received a letter carried by a Great Horned Owl, written in green ink. When he opened it, a silver ring fell out onto his desk. Four karats, asscher cut, a halo of diamonds around the center stone.

 _Draco,_

 _I intended to throw this into the filthy river, but I didn't. It's the choices we make that determine if we are good, and not our intentions. I hope you, your mother, and your father can all enjoy knowing that a "filthy mudblood" is a better person than they'll ever be._

It was unsigned, but he knew who it was. The return address was clearly written:

 _Miss Ella Zamora_  
 _10 Spinner's End_  
 _Cokeworth, UK_

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! This story is going to jump around the timeline, so you get to find out the whos and the whats and the wheres in different points of the story! It will be fun-like a puzzle! I hope you all enjoy it. This is my first time writing a Harry Potter fanfiction, even though I've been reading the books since they came out!


	2. Chapter 2

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

* * *

 **Harry 15**

* * *

The Great Hall was abuzz. Copies of The Daily Prophet could be heard being folded and read. Harry was still seething from Malfoy's comment about how there was a cell in Azkaban with his name on it. When he looked to the right, he saw Hermione puzzling. Without asking, she turned to him and Ron and said:

"What do you think they meant, by Snape having a prospect of his own?"

She was referring to what they'd overheard at the Order of the Phoenix's Headquarters, Harry imagined. It was something that they'd heard just before Crookshanks ate that extendible ear.

"Who knows?" said Ron. "Snape's a git, anyhow."

"You don't think it's at all suspicious?"

"Everything to do with Snape is suspicious. He's a suspicious bloke."

The sorting ceremony was about to begin when Professor McGonagall rose with the hat. Professor Dumbledore came to the podium next to her and held his wand to his throat.

"Good evening, students. I hope that your summer was a safe and happy one. Our Sorting Ceremony will be commencing shortly, but first, I'd like to take the time to introduce to you a new and very special student—"

" _Special_ student _?_ " whispered Hermione. "Could that be it? Could that be 'Snape's own prospect?'"

"—She comes to us, in her fifth year, from the United States of America, of the illustrious academy of Ilvermorny—"

"Bloody hell is Ilvermorny?" asked Ron lowly.

Fred chimed in. "Hope it's good!"

"Americans are fun!" George said.

"—Our new student is an exceptionally talented young witch, and it is my deepest hope that you'll make her feel at home and welcome at Hogwarts. Please join me in welcoming Miss Ella Zamora of Ilvermorny."

The doors flew open and no student came out, but a great black raven, the largest Harry had ever seen, swooping up and down, gliding over the student body, its tail exceedingly long. It swooped around the headmaster, between the floating candles, and back again towards the teachers. When it reached the end of the tables, the raven transformed mid-flight into a girl, first at the legs which were long and shapely. The wings became arms that were thin and strong, and the feathers and beak became a tall witch's hat atop a cascade of black curls.

"An animagus!" gasped Hermione. "At her age!"

Ella Zamora gracefully pirouetted in her black leather heels and held out her arms as the student body applauded. She smiled and removed her hat, swept her curls to one side of her neck, and bowed deeply. When she straightened up, Harry saw her face, and it was a face even lovelier than Cho's; caramel-colored skin, thick black hair, round face with almond-shaped eyes that sparkled. Her arms were long yet taut with muscle, and Harry couldn't recall if he'd ever seen a girl with bare arms or bare legs in Hogwarts before. No doubt, Professor McGonagall would go mad on her.

"Bloody hell," said Ron, who was eyeing her slim-fit black dress that flared at her curved hips and fell just at her knee. "Is that what Americans wear to school?"

"That's fun!" said Fred.

"She looks _really_ fun!" said George.

"She'll _be_ lots of fun!" they both chimed together.

Professor Dumbledore was clapping, as well, as he came to take Ella's hand. "Yes, thank you, Miss Zamora, for that wonderful entrance. And we thank you for participating in our foreign exchange program."

She bowed low at the waist to the professor. "The pleasure is all mine, Headmaster—" she turned to face the student body. "—and I thank you all for your warm welcome! On behalf of the Magical Constitution of the United States of America, I thank you for your hospitality, and I express my deepest hope that our relations continue to be congenial in this foreign exchange program."

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, who seemed to be a combination of annoyed and impressed. "I'm sure we all have high hopes for you, my dear. Please, take a seat." She motioned to the stool, the one that all new students sat on to determine their fate.

"She's got to be in Gryffindor, don't you think?" said Ron quietly. "McGonagall will want to get her hands on someone who's an Animagus."

Fred and George peered. "Could be interesting."

"Could be just right."

"She'll be brilliant..."

"She looks naughty..."

"But the Sorting hat—"

"—It's twisting and deciding."

"The Sorting Hat did that for me, too," said Harry. He couldn't quite hear what the hat was saying, but it was certainly debating to itself. Ella Zamora's brows suddenly furrowed and she said something to the hat, looking rather annoyed.

Harry then could make out "Ohoho, it's like that is it? Well, in that case, it had better be… SLYTHERIN!" The Slytherin table erupted with a huge applause. Professor McGonagall looked a bit disappointed but gestured her to the Slytherin table. Professor Snape looked thoughtful.

"That can't be good," whispered Hermione. "Harry, quick, say something to her."

Harry spun his head around. "What?"

"Quick! She's coming this way! Welcome her! She'll be walking right between us!"

Ella bowed her head and walked gracefully towards the Slytherins with her head held high. He could have sworn that Ron uttered another 'bloody hell' when she passed by. Harry started to get up, but Malfoy had already slithered right into his line of sight with her.

"Welcome to Slytherin House," he said, taking her hand with a firm shake. "I'm your Prefect. My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ella smiled. Her teeth were white and rounded. "Prefect, eh? I suppose that means you're important."

"I'm the _most_ important. You'll want me as your friend."

"Well. It's nice to know that I'm already in your good graces, then. I must simply stay there." She was charming, Harry hated to admit. But was she really like that or was she playing with Malfoy back?

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

"I saw the way you looked at me when I was being sorted. You wanted me here." She winked. Malfoy seemed impressed and kept her right hand in his, then guided her back to Slytherin table with his left arm around her waist.

Harry peered to hear what they were saying. "You aren't, by chance, named after the constellation, are you, Draco?"

Malfoy seemed very impressed. "Exactly like the constellation."

"I fell asleep on the train ride here and I had a dream about a dragon made entirely of light. This must be fate."

Malfoy smiled and gestured to where he was sitting with his group of cronies. Harry sneered as he watched his hand slide to the small of her back. To Harry's shock, Malfoy flicked his wrist for Pansy to get out of the way, which caused her thick jaw to drop. Zabini shoved her aside and smiled at Ella, offering his hand, too.

"Blaise Zabini," he said, oil in his voice. "And this is Theo Nott..."

Harry heard them go through introductions; Malfoy was playing it up like Slytherin house was the gift to end all gifts, his grey eyes constantly wandering up and down her form.

"That _really_ can't be good," said Hermione. "Slytherin getting someone like that _cannot_ be good. Malfoy's already got her in his clique of cronies. We have to act. Someone like that can't go dark." Harry then heard Hermione smack Ron from across the table. "Will you _stop staring at her Ronald_?"

Ron shrugged. "Sorry I can't help it!"

Harry noticed that Crabbe and Goyle couldn't seem to help it, either. Even though there were new first-years being sorted in, Malfoy's entire clique couldn't seem to keep their eyes of the new American girl. At her hip, he then noticed a thin belt holding a wand. It was very light-colored, and appeared to be quite short, with intricate carvings he'd never seen before.

"If she's already in Slytherin," said Harry, "Maybe she's already an enemy." He was so lost in his own thoughts that he barely noticed the feast in front of him, the pudding that soon appeared. He kept on looking over at the Slytherin table. Everyone was hanging off of all that Ella said the way they normally held onto whatever Malfoy said. They seemed to be even more impressed when she complained about the food and how awful and tasteless it was, groaning about how in America they had _real_ food. He then saw Malfoy glance over towards Harry. He gave a knowing grin, then slid his hand further down on Ella's hip, past her—"

"Ouch!"

Harry heard the crack of what sounded like a whip, and Malfoy's hand was quickly withdrawn. But what had happened? Harry only heard a sound, but Ella made no movements. Malfoy quickly sat on his wounded hand and continued the conversation as if nothing was wrong. He then managed to see Ella giving him what appeared to be a knowing glance. Maybe she _could_ take care of herself?

Harry turned around. "Did you all see that?"

"See what?" asked Ron, his mouth full of pudding.

"She..." he shook his head. "Nevermind." When Harry looked up, he hadn't even noticed that Professor Dumbledore had already begun his introductions.

"...We also wish to welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher, Professor Dolores Umbridge." The room went tense as it eyes a plump woman wearing all pink. A pink suitcoat, pink skirt, pink hat, and all with perfectly primped hair. Harry squinted. "I'm sure you'll all join me in wishing the Professor good luck." He cleared his throat. "As usual, our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you—"

"Ahem!" Professor Umbridge cleared her throat and rose from the table.

Harry then whispered to Hermione. "She was at my hearing. She works for Fudge."

Professor Umbridge stood and all but waltzed across the platform. She held her head quite high. "Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome." She came towards Professor Dumbledore, then turned to address the Great Hall. Her smile was so...creepy. "And how lovely to see your bright, happy faces smiling up at me. I'm sure we're all going to be _very_ _good friends_."

"That's likely," chimed Fred and George quietly.

Professor Umbridge turned her head, then tilted it, and smiled across the faces, seeming to glance especially hard towards the Slytherin table. Her hands were clasped together, as if to convey a measure of sincerity. "The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance." She paced back and forth, examining the room, still with a bit of a dead-eyed smile. "Although each Headmaster has brought something new to this historic school," she began, then exchanged a nod with Professor Dumbledore, "Progress for the _sake_ of progress, _must_ be discouraged." She then gave, what appeared to be, a knowing look towards the Slytherin table, towards their new American friend. Was that supposed to be a warning? Umbridge continued: "Let us preserve what _must_ be preserved. Perfect what _can_ be perfected. And prune practices that ought to be..." her pale eyes darted around, still grinning madly before whispering " _...prohibited_." She then broke into a disarming smile, and gave a tiny giggle, before returning to her seat.

Harry couldn't help but overhear what Ella was saying to Malfoy. "I think you should get on her good side, Mister Prefect."

"Do you, now?" Harry pretended to stretch and leaned back so he could hear what else they were saying.

"You don't want to be the enemy of a woman wearing that much pink."

* * *

This one's brief. I thought about switching around perspectives _in_ chapter, but that just seemed like too much. Next chapter is coming soon!


	3. Chapter 3

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Draco 15**

* * *

"And here's the Slytherin dormitory. This is the common room. The Girls' dormitory is up that way, and the boys' is this way."

Ella Zamora wandered around, smiling, her mouth open just slightly in awe. The Slythern common room was truly something to behold. Thick drapes, dark mahogany wood, glowing green light, and the windows that showed the lake. Draco was quite sure it must have all been most exciting to a yank. The new Slytherin First years were a mixture of cowering and admiring, sticking with the group in front of Pansy and himself.

"This is beautiful. Are we underwater?" Zamora asked from the window.

"We are," said Draco. "Sometimes, at night, you can see the giant squid swimming 'round. You can hear the mermaids singing, too, on full moons. Don't go thinking they're friendly, though. They're highly territorial. They'll eat you, too, if you wander too close." Some of the first years gasped in fear.

Pansy stepped forward annoyed. "Let's get started, of course, with dispelling any myths. You should all be proud, elated to have been selected into Slytherin house. You have all been selected because the seed of greatness is within you. Some may look at their fellow Slytherins and think otherwise, but they were chosen to be great, just like you—" Pansy then shot Draco a look for some reason. "—and don't you forget it. The Great Merlin was a Slytherin, and you'll be following in his footsteps.

"Another thing to remember in Slytherin: We look after our own, which is more than you can say for Ravenclaw, I must say. Our emblem is the serpent, the wisest of all creatures, who is always aware when the danger is near. Do others fear you? Perhaps. Do others respect you? Absolutely. Slytherins get respect, no matter what.

"The password changes weekly, so be sure to pay attention to our bulletin board, just over there. And do not, under any circumstances, bring any members of any other houses into this room. The Slytherin common room hasn't been penetrated for over seven hundred years, than you very much, and we'll be keeping it that way. Furthermore…"

Draco watched Zamora walk around, half-listening to Pansy's speech, stepping gracefully almost as if she were dancing. He wasn't _sure_ if she was listening, but he knew that he certainly wasn't listening. She was an American, certainly, but if she was in Slytherin _and_ an Animagus, she was certainly an ally. She was someone of importance. She was someone he could use. He glanced at her wand, which was a light color of a wood that he wasn't sure if he recognized. Oak, maybe? It certainly was an unusual-looking wand.

Pansy cleared her throat. Draco snapped to attention. She nodded pointedly towards the boy's dormitory. She then turned her head. "Zamora!" she all but shouted at their new exchange student, who then about-faced towards Pansy. "I said 'move on.' The girls will be going up to the dormitory now."

"Hmm? Oh, no, you go ahead and show the first-years. I'll find my dorm later. I want to—"

"I'm not _asking_ ," snapped Pansy.

"It's not listed on the bulletin board?" asked Zamora.

"Follow. Me." Pansy growled. Draco never noticed how big her jaw was…

Zamora gave Draco a look and then followed Pansy up the stairs with the other first-year girls. Draco led the boys further downstairs into their dormitories, and showed them the ins-and-outs of it all. Once all were settled in, Draco decided to check and see if there were any stragglers in the Common room. It was late, by then, and he should have been getting to bed, but there were almost always a straggler or two, so it never hurt to check.

When he came back up to the common room, he heard a faint singing. It was the mermaids again, he guessed; when he first arrived there, he liked to pretend he was a ghost pirate living in a sunken ship where mermaids attended his every whim. Looking up, though, he saw that the figure of mermaid was reflected in the glass, projected onto the floor…

He came closer and saw that it wasn't a reflection, but Zamora with her hand up against the glass, touching to a mermaid on the other side. She was lying on her front under the window, her long legs out behind her, her pretty black shoes kicked off. Was she the one that was singing? The mermaid suddenly looked up and swam away, frightened. Zamora snapped her head around with a rather annoyed glance indeed.

"You frightened her!" she shot in a whisper.

"And _you_ shouldn't be up this late. I've the right to punish you for that, you know."

Zamora squinted. "Oh, it's you, Mister Prefect—sorry it's a little dark in here." Draco stepped forward, a little closer to the glowing green of the lake's water; Zamora's skin was glowing in the light. He smiled.

" _O fille douce , doux visage baigné dans le doux clair de lune_ ," he said.

Zamora gave a tiny laugh then covered her open mouth with glee. " _Parlez-vous Francais?_ " she whispered.

" _Oui_. _J'appris a parler francais a Marseille._ " This was met with a blank stare, then a bit of a frown.

"Sorry, something about Marseille?" Draco then looked a little annoyed.

"So you _don't_ speak French." _Bloody yank, anyhow_ , he thought to himself.

Zamora shrugged. "Only enough to know you were telling me I was beautiful." Draco smiled.

"It didn't sound bad, for an American."

"I suppose that's a compliment?" There was a pause. Zamora shifted in her seat at the bottom of the grand window and turned over to face him. "To tell you the truth, I only remember a little. My grandmother was French and my mother only spoke it when she was feeling emotional."

"What part of France was your grandmother from?"

"Monaco. She actually attended Beauxbatons when she was a girl. _Meme_ wanted my mother to attend Beauxbatons, too, but my grandparents were living in London at the time, so my mother came to Hogwarts before she moved to America. I think she was a third-year when she came to finish her education at Ilvermorny." Draco's interest was piqued. He lounged on one of the large leather armchairs by the bookcase and crossed his legs casually.

"And what house was she in?"

"My mother? She was a Slytherin, as was my grandfather."

 _Maybe she's not so bad, for a yank,_ thought Draco. "So you're a legacy, then? I'm a legacy, too. There's not been a Malfoy that wasn't in Slytherin for generations."

Zamora smiled. "Your parents must be thrilled you've kept the legacy going, then."

"It's not just me being Prefect, y'know," he said, crossing his one leg over the other. "I'm the Slytherin Quidditch team's Seeker. My father said it'd be a grave disgrace if I wasn't chosen to play for my house."

Zamora nodded with approval. "I thought you looked athletic when I saw you. But I pegged you for a duelist, not a jock. Which reminds me—" she bent to the side and pulled out a green envelope; it was the one that all new Slytherin students get when they join the House, the one with all of the information they needed to know "—do you not have a Dueling club here?"

Malfoy thought back to his second year, with that git Lockheart. "We _had_ one, but had no instructor suitable enough to run it, what with Snape being occupied as Potions club head."

"Oh, darn," sighed Zamora. "I was so looking forward to joining. I was the Captain of the girls' Dueling team at Ilvermorny. Our club was huge. We had a three-page spread in our yearbook." Draco wasn't certain what a yearbook was, but he wasn't about to ask. She held the letters in her hands, thumbing through the pages of the parchment. "But you have a choir, I see—and your extracurricular activities seem good. Not as good as Ilvermorny, of course, but still good."

"Extracurricular?"

"Well, yeah, what's the point of being at a sleepaway school if there's not a million things to keep you entertained? Speaking of which, I've noticed that I'm missing my social events calendar. Do you have one?"

"You're missing your what?" sneered Draco.

Now Zamora gave a sneer; only it wasn't a sneer of disgust, but more like a sneer of confusion and annoyance. "My social events calendar? You know, the thing that tells you the whats and the whens, for all the dances? The fundraisers, festivals? Picnics by the lake? _Those_ things?" Draco cringed in confusion. "What, you don't have those here?" Zamora said with a laugh. When Draco said nothing, Zamora's face fell. "Wait. Wait, you can't be—you mean you _don't_ have those here?! What the—? What in sodding flames do you do for fun around here?!"

Before Draco could answer, she flopped herself on her back and groaned loud. "Ugh! I can't _believe_ this! I'm stuck in this crappy country with its crappy food and _no_ Dueling club and I have _nothing_ to look forward to?! How can you stand this? And those _ugly_ _uniforms_? Don't get me started—the high-waisted skirts are going to cut my figure in half. I'm sure that some of these other girls can go just fine but those of us that _have_ one would like to be able to appreciate it. And _box_ pleats of all things, honestly—I wouldn't be caught dead in them. It's going to make my ass look fat, and not in a good way…" She sighed deeply. "I thought that Tracey was joking when she said there were no dances here…"

"Tracey Davis? You're rooming with her?"

"Yep—and what is that, by the way? You don't have your own rooms here? Do you have to share with the boys?"

Draco swaggered in his chair with an arrogant grin. "Prefects get their own special rooms." This was a bit of a lie, but...

"Oh." She sighed through her nose. "I had my own room at Ilvermorny. It was tiny, but it was mine. You can get your own room if you pay extra, or if you're a scholarship student, like I was." She held her high a little high just then, proudly. "I got a full ride for my potion-making. I'm quite skilled. Not that it matters, I guess, here, because now I'm crammed in with four other girls…"

Absurdly, Draco felt a strange heat, and a twitch in his trousers. _The Yank's cute when she's mad_ … "I wouldn't worry about it too much." Zamora turned her flushed-red face towards him, her cheeks a little puffed and pink. "I personally like a girl that leaves a bit to the imagination."

Normally, that'd have gotten a much more positive response. Zamora, on the other hand, gave an _extremely_ annoyed stare. "I don't dress the way I do for boys," she all but growled. "I dress for my reflection when I walk past a shiny window. And I don't want to look pretty, by the way, before you get that into your head—I want to look otherworldly and vaguely threatening. What good is it being a pretty witch if you can't plant the seeds of jealousy into the hearts of others with your good looks?"

After a moment of consideration, Draco shrugged and nodded in understanding. She then sat up on her knees and crawled towards him slowly.

"Do you still want to be my friend?" Draco didn't say anything, but he was guessing that she took the way he looked at her as a yes.

"Listen," began Zamora, "I don't like beating around the bush, and I've got a feeling that you're the kind of man that knows what he wants. Am I right?" Draco's eyebrow quirked. "I am going to rule this school. I was the Queen Bee at Ilvermorny and I'm going to be the Queen Bee here. I've got a feeling that if you and I teamed up, we would be an unstoppable juggernaut of power and sass. You with those…striking features, athleticism, and that Old World _je ne sais quoi_ …and me, with my ethnic ambiguity and willingness to do whatever it takes. It doesn't have to be a _true_ partnership, if you prefer otherwise, but just enough to show the school that we've teamed up. You can do whatever you want behind closed doors, if that's what you want."

Draco paused. "Not very romantic, are you?"

"Business first, pleasure later," said Zamora. "Besides, aren't you and Brun-Hilde a thing?"

"Psh—no, of course not." This was a lie, in a way, but…

"Oh! Well, in that case…" She leaned up on her knees and put her hands on his thighs. "We can mix business with pleasure." She leaned forward a little, so Draco could see straight down her—

"But I think it's only fair to tell you that I expect certain things of you. You'll walk me to my classes, and we'll share at least one meal together each day, as a requirement. You can choose if it's breakfast or dinner. I'll come to all of your Quidditch games and support you wholly in every endeavor, so long as you come to any of my choir performances and whatnot. I don't hold hands, but I'll take your arm and lean on you, so long as you can keep up with my power-walking pace. Oh, and you'll have to look at me like you want to either devour me or _be_ devoured by me when I walk away from you…" She brushed against his cheek with her fingers to snap his attention back up to her eyes. "But it seems like you can handle that. These are my basic terms. Do you accept them?"

Draco leaned forward, barely an inch from your face. "So what do I call you, then? Girlfriend?"

"If that's where you want to take it, then sure." He could smell the chocolate pudding on her lips from the evening meal. "But I'd prefer if we just started with 'Ella.'"

"Ella," he whispered. "I'm going to have to teach you how _we_ do things around here. Wheeling and dealing on the first date? I'm afraid that Yankee vulgarity won't get you far."

She scoffed a little; he felt her breath on his lips. "Did I make a mistake in thinking I could speak freely with you?"

"Not at all," said Draco. "But you're not going to get anywhere like that in this school. We don't lay things out on the table. We like a little intrigue. Gossip fuels Hogwarts, and you can't get any gossip when you're a straight-shooter."

"Hmm…" She leaned back to sit on the floor, folding her legs up beneath her. "I suppose that this _will_ be a different sort of game, won't it?"

"You'll not want to step on the toes of the wrong sort, or the right sort, for that matter. I can help you there."

Ella stood up in one fluid motion and held out her hand. "Shake on it, then?" Draco stood and smiled, then shook her hand firmly. He leaned into her, but Ella put her finger on his lips. "I want you to know something—" she leaned in and whispered in his ear "—if you welch out on me, I'm going to unleash a Hell upon you that will make your nightmares seem like a happy place." And she nibbled on the lobe of his ear.

Draco pulled away and frowned. "I don't like threats."

Ella raised an eyebrow. "Tell that to him," she said, pointing downwards at the growing bulge in his trousers. Horrified, Draco withdrew, causing Ella to laugh. "Don't worry, I won't tell." She winked and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Hey, you're in this, now, too. We can turn on the romance, if you want. I just think it's fair to tell you what you're in for. I want to be straightforward with you because I like you."

He sighed through his nose. "It's late. You should get to bed."

"Do you not like me, too?"

"See, this is what I was talking about—subtlety escapes you, I see?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't think you were the shy type." There was an awkward and rather tense pause. "It's okay to be shy. I think it's completely okay for boys to be shy, too." She walked towards him and kissed him on the cheek. "You can set the pace on where we go for the romantic stuff. Okay?" There was another silence; Draco shifted uncomfortably. She then pointed at her own cheek. Reluctantly, shyly, he kissed her at the junction of her neck and jaw, causing her to give a tiny squeal of delight. "Okay, see you in the morning." She skipped off towards the girls' dormitory. "Save me a seat next to you at breakfast."

* * *

A quick thank you to my followers and commentors! You mean a lot to me! (Also, I LOVE that I'm having to look up slang from the 90s for a proper American teen conversation.) Also, I don't know if Prefects get their own rooms(but it never states that they DON'T. I figured that since they get their own bathrooms, they should at least have the option to have their own space. I'm just taking a little artistic license over here...


	4. Chapter 4

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 18**

* * *

"Awright, 'ere we are, Missus—10 Spinner's End, Cokewerf." With movement akin to a drunken newborn deer, Ella stumbled off the Knight Bus, clutching the side as the conductor got her luggage onto the kerb. "Fancy lady loike yew in a place loike fis? Psh… Oi, yew awright?"

"You should be shot in the face, you psychotic mouth-breather." And Ella collapsed face-first onto the sidewalk with a bout of nausea. The bus conductor paused for a moment and then gave rather dumb-sounding laugh. The rising sun fell onto the Knight Bus.

"Guess da Knoight bus ain't for everyone, innit? Oi, ain't you that, er, that witch that done punched old—"

"Yep. That's me. Good old me…" Ella was laying flat on her belly on the wet and muddy sidewalk, her head dizzy from the intense motion sickness that was making her see spots everywhere; she swore she could taste pennies.

"Cor blimey! Never fou' Oi'd be da one ta transport da famous Slyfverella!"

"It's—!" Ella jerked her head up off the pavement to protest, but then immediately decided that it just wasn't worth it. She let her cheek hit the sidewalk again. "Ugh. Yeah. Fine. That's me. Slytherella. Whatever."

" 'Oi! Whatchu takin' da Knoight Bus fo'? Can't yew apparate o' somefin? Ca'tchye turn into a bird or somefin?"

"Tragically, my tiny raven body can't carry suitcases…"

"Wouldn' da Ministry be 'elping yew get somewhere? Not da emergency transport?"

"Normally, I like the train, but I didn't think they'd allow caged owls." This was all said more into the sidewalk than to him, as her face was essentially pressed into the cold pavement.

"Ye need 'elp getting' in, missus?"

"Nope. You've done…quite enough. Thanks. Just…" She weakly tossed a few galleons behind her at the conductor's feet. "…take this and promise to never let me on that bus again." The conductor picked up the galleons, looked at them, then shrugged and got back on the bus. Within an instant it was gone, leaving Ella, surrounded by her fine leather trunk, luggage, and caged Great Horned Owl, in her gorgeous green wool coat with the lace trim, lying face-down on the dirty sidewalk in front of her new home in Cokeworth, a misty, muddy mess of a town that would rival a Dickens' novel in wretched-ness.

"Well." She said more to herself than to anyone. "This is an excellent metaphor of my life at the moment."

" _Whoooo?"_ Phoebus hooted from beneath his cage cover.

"Me, that's who…"

A deep sigh and a minor existential crisis later, Ella forced herself up to a standing position and brushed off her coat. It was too dark to see the real damage, but her entire philosophy over the previous week had been "Well, this may as well happen", which was just a step above apathy. She _should_ have been out celebrating with her friends that they were all graduates of Hogwarts, going to parties in London, drinking at the clubs, dancing at the Rainbow Peacock…but no.

Here she was. Ella X. Zamora, eighteen years old, Slytherin Head Girl, graduated top of her class with nothing less than Exceeds Expectations in her lowest of all nine N.E.W.T.s, in Cokeworth. This time, it wasn't necessarily by choice. She put her fetching hat back on and opened the door with the key.

"Lumos maximus," she cast into the center of the room, a glowing ball of light suspending like a chandelier. Turning to her luggage, which was neatly stacked on the curb, she waved her wand and her case, her trunk, and Phoebus's cage all neatly floated into the house, through the entryway, and set down in the center of the living room; she shut the door and locked it, then turned on all the lights. It was exactly the same, exactly as she remembered it, even with the smell of moldy furniture and neglect.

Ella uncovered Phoebus's cage and the Great Horned Owl gave an annoyed twitch, almost as if to say "Are we really staying in this dump?" She opened his cage and offered her gloved hand.

"Come on, Phoebus. We live here now." The owl huffed and hobbled onto her wrist; she lifted him high. "You can go anywhere you like in this house. It's ours." He flew off her wrist and onto the top of Professor Snape's old beige armchair, giving a hoot. "I know," said Ella with a sigh.

The house was simple enough in design. Snape had a small yet impressive library off to the side of the kitchen, which was across from the living area. Up that creaky old staircase lie three cramped bedrooms and a _very_ tiny bathroom that was barely enough for the tub. Downstairs, which was only accessible by a trap door beneath the rug in the entryway, was a cellar which the Professor had turned into a potions laboratory. There was a cupboard under the stairs for storage, and plenty of tall storage available in the kitchen, which was seldom used. Every cupboard was bare, just as the Professor had left it. All that lay full were his potions down in the laboratory, surely, and the shelves of books, which were piled high in every single room.

Going into the library, she piled some wood and kindling into the fireplace. She wordlessly cast a spell into the logs, causing sparks, flames to fly from the tip of her wand. The room was soon warmed by a crackling fire. It was a rather early morning in late May, so she opened all the windows to air out everything and let the cobwebs dissipate. She wasn't quite cold, necessarily, but the fire seemed to be clearing out the floo and ridding itself of any gunk. When she went to the bathroom upstairs she caught her reflection in the mirror and groaned at how muddy her lovely green coat had gotten.

She removed her coat and set it on the bed, Snape's old bed, which was technically hers, now. It was barely a cot, she realized now that she was really looking at it. The room itself was fairly sparse, with a thin wool blanket on the bed and a few pictures on the nightstand, some on the dresser. Professor Snape seemed to be quite sentimenta; she wondered who some of these people were. She did, however, recognize pictures of Professor Snape as a young boy as well as Harry Potter's parents. It didn't seem right to throw them away, so perhaps she'd turn them into a photo album of some kind and reuse the frames for her own photos. Or, of course, she could take _all_ of the photos and turn them into a lovely display across the walls in the hallway, or perhaps the kitchen?

" _Whoooooo? Whoo-hooo?_ " cawed Phoebus as he nipped at the picture frames on the nightstand.

Ella shrugged. "I'm not sure. It looks like the Professor's old friends from school. I think these people are Harry's parents. Do you think he'll want it?"

" _Who?_ "

"What do you mean, 'who'? Harry Potter? Hedwig's owner?"

" _Whooo?_ "

"Hedwig, the snowy owl; the one that died? You know her? You remember her." Phoebus spun his head around, then cocked it side to side. He flew across the room to the now open window and stretched his wings. He perched happily there and began cleaning his feathers. Ella sighed. "There'll be a lot of things to go through. I'm sure that there will be lots of things that should go to other people." She flopped backwards onto the bed. She'd slept at the Leaky Cauldron the night before and all of the creepy-crawlies in her bed had gotten a far better night's rest than she did. "Ugh, I'm exhausted. Hey. Hey—you bird! Are you listening to me?"

Phoebus stopped cleaning his feathers. " _Who who?_ "

Ella groaned. "Never mind. Go back to preening."

After a hot shower, Ella was beginning to feel something like a human again. She put on a pair of jeans and began to move her things in. A few waves of her wand, and all of Professor Snape's clothes and shoes(which were very sparse, as well) found their way into her trunk, where all of her things went into his old wardrobe, neatly put away. All of her dresses, shoes, blouses and pants, her lovely collection of pointed hats, flitted and floated around the bedroom. Her own pictures came out of the trunk and found their way to the nightstand. She sent the trunk, now full of Professor Snape's belongings, to find its way downstairs into the cellar for storage.

A quick spell on the broom and sponges left in the kitchen caused the whole house to become alive with magic. Phoebus glided up through the house and watched as all of the photos flew from their homes on desks and mantles and tables and found their new homes on the walls. The windows were open, of course, but she didn't expect any trouble. She was, after all, no longer an underage Witchling, but a full-grown Witch in her own home. Besides, the houses were so dilapidated that she figured there was nobody there to complain about any funny business going on. She heard cars and children outside; people must be leaving for work.

Phoebus perched himself on the nightstand and hooted. He then hopped onto the bed and nestled himself on her coat. Ella was a little annoyed, but then realized that she'd have to clean it anyway, so her annoyance soon went away. It was a little past eleven before she realized that she'd scarcely eaten that day, but she felt as though she'd made a great amount of progress in the old house. A knock was then heard at the door.

Frowning in confusion, Ella apparated downstairs and straightened her hair a bit before answering the door. When she opened it, it appeared to be a great potted monkshood plant being held up by a pair of blue-and-yellow starred stockings and pink galoshes. Ella laughed.

"Luna, what a pleasant surprise!"

"I've heard the news. I've brought you a housewarming gift, as well as a subscription to the Quibbler, which should be arriving shortly. You'll get a new copy every week," said Luna's soft voice, lilting over the plant.

"Please come in. I'll find a place for this." She took the plant and set it in the library. "Make yourself at home," she called, "Heaven knows I'm trying to," she said to herself as she situated the plant on the table by the window. Monkshood did just fine in shady areas, of course, but a little sun couldn't hurt it.

"What a lovely house," said Luna, who had taken off her galoshes and left them by the door. "There are lots of memories here. No nargles, it seems, but it looks as if you've got wrackspurts all over. I see you're settling in. Perhaps changing the color of the walls might help make it a bit more cheerful? But not pink; pink walls have been shown to induce insanity." Ella shrugged. Luna took her hand in comfort. "I know that Professor Snape left you this place for you to make a home in. He would want you to be happy here."

Ella gave a sad smile. They sat together on the threadbare old sofa in the sitting room. "I'd offer you some tea or something but there's not a crumb of food in the house."

"I've already had luncheon, thank you. But by the look of you I suspect you might be in need of some pudding, or at least a licorice wand."

Ella smiled and shook her head. "It's alright. Really. I guess I'm still sort of processing all that's happened. It was here and gone so quickly, it almost feels as if I dreamt the last three years." As if on cue, Phoebus flew down from the upstairs and landed on the sofa's arm, right behind Ella's head. "But then this beastie shows up and reminds me that it was real." She gave a scratch to Phoebus's feathers, which he seemed to enjoy. Luna smiled.

"The Professor was very dear to you, wasn't he? Like a father? It must hurt, knowing all the things people are saying, now."

"They've said even worse things about me. I know the truth, which is enough."

"Still, you must be feeling very conflicted. Bad thoughts attract nasty creatures, you know. I'd hate to see the insides of your head all gobbled up by wrackspurts, or worse, especially when you have so much to offer. And I hear that moon frogs have begun to breed in nearby rivers. They're quite beautiful but very destructive, such as most invasive species."

"If I see any moon frogs in the river, you'll be the first person I call." Ella stretched a little and popped her neck. "Anyway, how are you?"

"Very well, thank you. I've gotten my grades just this morning. I've received an Oustanding in my N.E.W.T. for Care of Magical Creatures. I think I'll be pursuing a career as a magizoologist. There's a very good program in Sweden, which is precisely where Crumple-Horned Snorkacks live."

"I think the news of such good grades calls for a celebration."

"There's going to be a graduation party later this evening at The Burrow. You should come."

Ella cringed visibly. "I don't think that I'll be welcome there."

"Hermione at least will be expecting you."

Ella rolled her eyes back and allowed her head to fall upon the arm of the couch in a rather dramatic fashion, causing Phoebus to shriek in annoyance. "Oh Hermione…"

"If you'd like to be alone tonight, I do understand. Solitude can be cathartic, in small doses. I simply suspect that Hermione feels you've isolated yourself over the last year on a level that's quite unhealthy."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Phoebus pecked at the black curls on Ella's head. "I wouldn't have been able to get all nine N.E.W.T.s done right had I any sort of social life."

"Did you do well on your N.E.W.T.s?"

"The lowest I got was an Exceeds Expectations," bragged Ella with a wry grin.

"In which subject?"

"Care of Magical Creatures and History of Magic. I only barely scraped by on that one, though…I was terrified to get an Acceptable. I haven't a head for dates, honestly, and that was a fair portion of the test. I received an Outstanding in Potions, of course, as well as Herbology, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts…well, you know. You were there for most of my classes."

"I think that's all the more reason to come and celebrate with us. You've accomplished much. Dwelling on the darkness can smother the wonderful glowing light within you."

Ella smiled and shook her head. "I don't like crashing parties much anymore. I think I'll just get settled in."

"I understand. When my mother died, all I wanted was to be alone. Eventually, I came around when I was ready." Luna gave Ella's hand a squeeze. "You know where to find us, should you change your mind. I think I'll find some pudding for myself. Perhaps a pumpkin pastie." And just like that, Luna skipped out of her house.

Twenty minutes and a brief nap later, Ella heard another knocking at the door. Confused, she answered to see a lanky Gryffindor in a knitted cardigan, smiling with a bouquet of pink glimmeroses.

"Hello, Ella. These are for you." Shakily, he held them out to her. Ella smiled and took the roses, giving them a smell. She liked the pink glimmeroses the best, for they smelled like bakewell tarts.

"Thank you, Neville," she said with a grin. He gave a smile, then nervously shifted, putting his hands in his pockets. "Won't you come in?"

Neville shifted nervously and looked up at the house. "Well, erm—"

"His ghost isn't here. It's not going to jump out of the cupboard and spook you for not doing your homework."

Neville laughed nervously, poked his head inside, and then withdrew. "I-I just wanted to give you those."

A beat. "That's it?"

"Well, I figured you're moving in, and you haven't much time for company…that I'll come back when you're all settled? I'm taking my Gran to tea, anyway. I'd invite you, too, but I know you like to plow through work and all, so…"

Ella gave a laugh. "Yes, I suppose. I haven't anything to offer you, yet, anyway. But I'll throw a party once I get everything settled."

"Speaking of which, there's a big party at The Burrow tonight. Everyone's invited. Are you coming?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "No, thank you."

"But— It's not like we mind that you're a Slytherin at all—I mean, you're a good one. What you did with You-Know-Who—"

"See, the problem is…you think that _all_ Slytherins are bad. You immediately group me in with a terrorist group just because I _happened_ to be in the same place that they once were in. Slytherins aren't horrible racists, Neville. And those who are can't help themselves."

"Wha—?"

"Have you ever thought that maybe the reasons some Slytherins act like total buttmunches because they're _expected_ to by other houses? They're bullied and made fun of, so then they start becoming jerks for real, even when they don't want to?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"—I know that you didn't mean anything by it, but the fact of the matter is that…you said it. You said it because you think it, whether you think it's okay or not. I _asked_ to be put in Slytherin, you know. And it's not why you think." There was a very awkward pause. "Thank you for the glimmeroses. They're really beautiful."

Neville smiled nervously. "They'll really brighten up your house. And I figured you could still use the powder when they've all dried up." Ella smiled; Neville smiled, too. "Let me try again; would you like to come to the party with me tonight?"

Though she smiled, Ella shook her head. "No, thank you. But tell everyone I said hello." And she closed the door. She smelled the roses again, this time they smelled of fairy floss. Sighing, she found a vase in the kitchen and filled it with water for the roses. A quick wave of her wand would help them last longer, and they'd look lovely by her new bed. Going upstairs, though, she sort of shuddered at the thought of sleeping on the bed of a dead man, even if that man was as dear to her as Professor Snape had been.

Having a quick change of clothes into a crinoline green dress and popping a lovely hat on her head, she extinguished the fire, put a quick protection spell on her house's windows and doors, and then proceeded to gather her things to a trip to Diagon Alley. She then realized that _everyone_ she knew would likely be near Diagon Alley. Did she want to face anybody today? Did she truly have the strength, now? And where would you buy a new bed on Diagon Alley?

Eventually, Ella convinced herself that, even if she _could_ find a new bed and mattress easily today at the IKEA in London, they'd likely not deliver to Cokeworth _today_. Her best bet of sleeping on a fresh bed tonight was to go to Diagon Alley. Resigning herself to her fate, she put on some tasteful red lipstick and the happiest face she could and apparated there.

As always it was flourishing with life. Little had changed, except for now a few shops were empty. The Weasley brother's shop was still there, still a bright spot, which was truly a testament to the powers of joy. Joy and laughter was a weapon to be used against the darkness, and magic taught her that over and over again.

Although the ice cream parlour was gone, she bought herself some sweets before going to Gringott's and making a withdrawl. She chewed on a licorice wand as she walked up and down the Alley, stopping to smile at the lovely robes in Twilfitt and Tattings. Finally, after scouring the Alley, she didn't find any furniture store that she liked…so she resigned to take a turn elsewhere, to Knockturn Alley, which was not surprisingly sparse considering the events of the war. Borgin and Burkes, however, was still open.

The place was undeniably creepy, but something about it was….enchanting. Borgin withdrew at the sight of Ella, then hissed: "What do you want?"

Ella shrugged. "I'm looking to buy a bed. I need a new mattress and bedframe. Can you help?"

"We sell magical artifacts here. And none for the likes of _you_."

She squinted. "Is it because I'm the one that did you-know-what to you-know-who, or is it because I'm—?"

"Get out of my shop! We've nothing for blood-traitors!"

Ella sighed. She considered turning him into stone, or a dog, or a chair, but then simply jingled her coin purse and shrugged. "Alright. I'll try somewhere else."

When Borgin saw the glimmer of golden galleons, he quickly tried to change his tune, but Ella eventually found a bed for herself at a furniture shop that had just opened up at the end of the Alley. It was about nightfall when the new bed was being set up in her cozy little home in Cokeworth, complete with sheets of a cool dove gray that paired so lovely with the emerald blankets she'd found. Her new bed reminded her of her old four-poster at school, in that cramped little room with Tracey and Millicent and Daphne. The only difference was that this was a Queen size, which was probably a bit large for the room, but she could worry about that later, perhaps knock a wall down or move a wall over a few feet. It was hers now, of course, so she could renovate.

She paid the delivery man and settled in. The sun was setting over Cokeworth and Ella climbed to the pitched roof to see it. The smell and haze over the formerly industrial town was fairly clear, and she could see the river. Up close, there was surely lots of garbage and whatnot, but she could only see the sweeping willow trees and rolling hills that were just outside. Ella let out a breath, and felt all that was thick and full of bile within her well up to her eyes and stream out her face. She buried her face in her hands and wept silently into her palms. So much had happened, it didn't seem real.

At about 7 o' clock, Ella was just settling into a cup of tea and a sandwich, while she began to look through the books in the library. She was slowly dozing to the sound of the radio going in the background when she suddenly felt her house shake and pop and shake again. Suddenly, she heard some cursing outside, then footsteps, then some frantic knocking at the door.

"Ella!" came a familiar voice. "Ella! Are you in there?!"

In a cocktail of confusion and anger, Ella rose to the door and opened it, only to have a flash of red and brown wrap their arms around her.

"Ella, thank heavens you're all right!" Hermione pulled away and looked at her face. "When you didn't show up I was so worried!"

"Wha—?" She shook her head in confusion. "What in the world are you talking about? And how are you here? _Why_ are you here?"

"The party!" Hermione stormed in through the foyer and turned a sharp right, then pacing back and forth angrily in Ella's library. "I can't believe you didn't come! Head Girl of Slytherin, that speech you made, and you didn't come to the graduation party?! I thought you were dead! I thought somebody had killed you!"

"I decide not to come to a party and somebody thinks I died?" She pursed her lips, almost impressed that she had remained somehow so important after school had ended. Another popping quickly came, and then another flash of red and brown came in.

"Hermione!" came Weasley, rushing passed Ella and to the Gryffindor's arms. "Why did you run away? What are you doing?"

"How did you all—?!" Ella couldn't even finish her sentence of protest before Potter came bashing in through the front door.

"What's going on here? Is everyone alright?"

"No! Please! Everybody come in! I'll put on the kettle!" said Ella with heavy sarcasm.

Potter and Weasley turned to see Ella, looking rather perturbed. Finally, a "Sorry, Ella," came from Potter's lips, with much stuttering and gesturing alike.

Ella then had the trio sit on her threadbare sofa, which she _should_ have replaced while she was out, but hadn't thought to until just that moment. After some pacing and rage-filled miming, she finally turned to the three of them and said:

"Why. Are you all. In my House?!"

"They followed me here," said Hermione, shushing them both before they could stutter more. "And I'm here because Neville mentioned he'd been to see you."

"Neville?" Ella then paced around a bit. "Why would he do that?"

"Because he cares for you and was concerned. When he said you were living in Snape's old house, we…" Ella's face must have shown her sudden rage, for the way they quickly changed directions in the conversation. Hermione then stood. "I know that the last year for you has been difficult. It must have been. You must be feeling grateful for the home, bereaved for the professor, overjoyed because of your grades, confused because you don't know if you _should_ feel any sort of joy during grieving, then conflicted because—"

"If I go to the party and stay for twenty minutes, will you stop? Will you _just_ stop?"

"Well I'm so sorry that I've _annoyed_ you with my friendship!" hissed Hermione.

"You've _annoyed_ me by busting into my house unannounced and bringing your jolly pirate crew with you—honestly, what if _I_ did that? You'd be calling the police if I did that."

"Why didn't you come to the party?!" insisted Hermione.

" _Why_ do you care so much that I didn't come to the party?!" screeched Ella.

"Because I can't live with the fact that you're not alright!" There was a sudden, very long silence. "You're my only friend from Slytherin and you're living proof that they aren't all bad. And I can't stand the thought of you being alone after everything. Your entire House turned against you and you still fought to save Hogwarts alongside everyone else. And to top it off, when you returned, you were awarded the position of Head Girl and did amazing on your N.E.W.T.s..."

Ella shrugged, almost dismissively. "The serpent sheds her skin when she's outgrown the old one."

"That's not it. You've always been you but Slytherin went from loving to loathing you."

"That's not true. There were a few choice bigots in Slytherin that were loud about it—the other two-hundred-something in Slytherin rather liked me. Just because I didn't appear to have a clique last year didn't mean I was lonely."

"But…" Hermione's eyes welled. "You barely spoke to anyone. You went from ruling the school with an iron fist to being shunned in the shadows and—" She gulped back tears. "Listen, I just wanted you to come to the party. I wanted you to know that we're here for you."

There were too many things left unsaid, and Ella didn't have the strength to have that kind of conversation while Harry and Ron were sitting on her threadbare sofa, gawking at them both. Finally, Ella sighed and said: "If it means so much to you, I'll change and we'll go to the party."

She could tell that Hermione wanted to be overjoyed with this news, but was quite hesitant about it. "I don't want you to come if you don't want to."

A beat. "I feel like that's a thought you should have had before you tried to apparate into my house."

"She's got a point," muttered Ron, causing Harry to smirk a little.

"Come on," said Ella. "Let's go to this party of yours."

Ella extinguished the fire in her fireplace and they all climbed to the second floor. In the empty fireplace in the second-floor library, they all floo'd to the Weasley's house, where there was a celebration like Ella hadn't seen in years. Neville came up to greet her with a tight embrace when she arrived.

"I thought you weren't coming!" he said as he pulled away with a toothy grin.

She wrapped her arms tight around him. "I just like keeping you guessing," she said as she gave him a quick kiss on the nose.

Neville laughed. "Dance?"

"God, yes."

The next hours were full of laughing and dancing around the big summer bonfire, more food than anybody could ever imagine, and true joy like she hadn't felt the entire year. There was dancing and firewhiskey up til the wee hours of the twilight. Ella woke sometime in the early afternoon back in her bed, all curled up in the twists and tangles of her sheets, feeling a rather hairy leg with the sole of her foot. Rolling over, she saw Neville sharing her pillow. She caressed his whiskered cheek, and he stirred. Smiling at her, he said: "Good morning."

Ella nodded and sank her head into the crook of his neck, curling her fingers through the hair on his naked chest. "Yes, it is…" She sighed happily as he wrapped his long arms around her. "Glad to know you've gotten over your fear of the house."

Neville laughed. "They don't call Firewhiskey liquid courage for nothing."

* * *

Thanks to everyone for reading and favoriting! Thank you for my comments! Thank you all! Sorry I've not been updating this often. I have a crazy life. Anywho, I hope you've enjoyed.


	5. Chapter 5

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Narcissa 41**

* * *

"Severus," said Mrs. Malfoy, adjusting her coat, "now that we've…" She cleared her throat. "May I speak another matter?"

"Truthfully, it would be a relief," said Snape, who poured himself another glass of Port.

"Cissy, now's not the time," said Bellatrix. "We shouldn't even be here."

Ignoring her elder sister, Narcissa turned away and began to pace a bit nervously. Narcissa finally settled back into the big armchair and took her glass of port. She sipped, sighed, and spoke. "Now that I know Draco will be safe, with you protecting him, I'd like to know more about this…protégé of yours I've been hearing about?" Severus tensed. "The American one?"

Severus quirked a brow and looked down his nose. "What about her?"

"Draco seems to have shown an interest in her." Severus tilted his head and nodded in agreement, it seemed. "I would hear your words of this girl."

"Narcissa," said Severus, "You've just seen your husband off to Azkaban. I doubt this is truly the time to be interviewing prospects for your son."

"I wouldn't be, had Draco not been asking." A tear began to form at her expertly-lined eye. "He needs some joy in his life. Perhaps the prospect of wedding a girl he seems to love will lift his spirits? She seems to be the only thing that brings a smile anymore."

After a very long pause, Severus nodded in understanding. "As much as it pains me to say: though she is an American, she's quite easily my best student. Top of her class at Ilvermorny, winner of several American junior potion-making competitions, Captain of the girls' Dueling Team; within the first month of her term I found her surpassing all of the others and leaving them in the dust. Naturally gifted, overly ambitious, _insufferably_ curious…"

"And she is a Slytherin?" Narcissa pried, hoping that Severus would catch her meaning.

"Oh, yes, as Slytherin as they come," Severus admitted. He then turned on his heel and took a sip of his own glass. "A… _true_ Slytherin, in every sense of the word." Bella and Narcissa both smiled. "In fact, she knocked Pansy Parkinson off her throne within her first week at Hogwarts. I'll say, however, that hers was a controlled and benevolent rule, unless crossed."

"And if crossed?" Bellatrix asked, now intrigued.

"There was seldom a Slytherin that crossed her; if there was, she would simply stick to purely psychological torment, something that narry a witch or wizard is prepared for. She did, however, turn a Gryffindor student into a piglet…and she ended up being rewarded for it."

"An American student transformed her classmate into a piglet?"

"Your sister doubts my word on the girl, Narcissa… Her skills in transfiguration are admittedly remarkable, especially for her age. I dare say had the Triwizard Tournament be held at Ilvermorny two years ago, things would have ended quite differently. Same can be said if she had attended Beauxbatons, as her grandmother wanted her to."

"A relief, then, that it took place at Hogwarts when it did," said Bella.

Severus continued, as if Bellatrix had said nothing. "If I were to choose, though, I'd say that Ella Zamora's tongue is her greatest weapon, oh yes. She somehow convinced Minerva McGonagall that it was _her_ student's fault that he got turned into a piglet by bullying a younger Slytherin student. No points were deducted from either House, but she received no punishment from me."

"So she's clever," said Narcissa. "Clever, talented, a Slytherin, from a good family?" Narcissa sighed in relief. "That's good news, at least."

"We still know nothing of her family, Cissy," said Bellatrix, poking about the library. "Nothing at all."

"You'd not have met her mother, Bella, but Narcissa—you have. She was entering Hogwarts just as you were leaving. She was a year behind me. Penelope Spelling, the only daughter of Archibald Spelling, the potioneer. She, in fact, came from a whole line of Potioneers."

Bella snorted through her throat. "The Spellings are _noveau riche_. And they're not Purebloods."

Narcissa snapped her head around in protest. "They made their fortune in the 1800s, that's not so new," she argued. "And a cousin, here or there, breeding with a muggle can't be _so_ bad, so long as it's not a direct line…could it?" She almost couldn't believe her own words as they spilled from her lips. But Draco's happiness was everything, now; Draco was all she had left in such a cruel world.

"The Spellings were fabulously wealthy, nobody can say otherwise. Spelling flaunted her father's wealth in her short time at Hogwarts before she moved to Ilvermorny… And money follows money, one would say, as young Penelope's husband was the son of a… _very_ old American family."

"Zamora is an American name, then?" asked Narcissa.

"From what I understand, her father's paternal family originally hailed from Spain, who immigrated sometime in the 1910s. Her father's mother, however, is the daughter of the Coulter family. They have had ties to the Americas since its beginning."

"That's quite a bit of knowledge you've got on a girl of sixteen, Snape…" hissed Bellatrix suspiciously.

"It is my duty as Head of Slytherin house to know my students and of their relations. Everything I know of her is in her file, accessible to every Professor at Hogwarts."

A pause. Narcissa nursed her port again and nodded. "You've mentioned her grandmother?"

Severus sat, finally. "Helene Christophe, _Beauxbatons_ graduate."

"Christophe?" gasped Narcissa. "Surely not the same Christophes that own all of those hotels and casinos in Monaco?"

"The same, indeed," said Severus. "The grandmother is an heiress to arguably one of the largest fortunes in the province. Quite frankly, though, I don't see Zamora giving up the quest to becoming a potioneer to manage all of those hotels. I have even offered her the position of Slytherin Prefect for her Sixth year but she turned it down."

Narcissa sneered in disbelief. "Why on earth would she do such a thing?"

Severus shrugged. "She claimed that it would take away from her studies, and that being responsible for the Slytherin students of her house would be akin to herding cats. Nevertheless, Zamora resides in Monaco under her grandmother's care over the summer. Perhaps Madame Christophe hopes to persuade her granddaughter into managing the hotels once she's graduated."

Narcissa paused and exchanged a knowing glance with Bella. If Draco wedded the girl, received even a portion of that fortune, and produced an heir, the Malfoy name would _truly_ mean something again. If Draco were to, perhaps, manage the hotels and casinos in Monaco when he was older, then it would certainly be a fortuitous career move. Finally, Narcissa looked back to Severus. "So she can be managed," suggested she. "That's all a mother needs to know of a future daughter-in-law, isn't it? That she can be managed?"

A pause. "If kept _occupied_ , yes," admitted Severus. "She can be managed. When left to her own devices, of course, she's been known to…start things."

Bellatrix frowned. "Such as?" asked Narcissa.

Severus gave an annoyed sigh through his long nose, as if annoyed by the mere memory of the event. "She began an underground Dueling club in the Hogwarts dungeons, for one."

"She wasn't the only one that raised an army, I hear…"

"Unlike Dumbledore, Zamora's intentions weren't based on overthrowing the Ministry. I'd call her an agent of chaos if I didn't know otherwise. But her intentions are always clear: to do exactly as she likes, _when_ she likes." Severus took a sip of his port. "I'll say this, though: she's exceptionally talented and skilled in the subtle science of potion-making. In fact…she's already mastered the elusive wolfsbane potion."

A lump caught in Narcissa's throat. "Did you—?"

"No. She's just making the potions. She thinks it is all for practice. Put that girl in front of a cauldron and you'll see her occupied." Just then, a crash was heard upstairs. Severus closed his eyes and sighed, exasperated, through his nose. "Speak of the Devil…"

"She just… _shows up at her Professor's house_?" hissed Bellatrix in a rather ugly way; Severus obviously didn't care for what she seemed to be suggesting.

Severus snapped his robes in annoyance and moved to the door. "She practices potions here. Her grandmother doesn't care for experimentation in her penthouse."

"Wait," said Narcissa. "you needn't send her away…invite her down?" Before Severus could move, footsteps came bounding down the stairs and then a playfully loud knock came at the door.

"Profess—oh! Oh sorry!" Narcissa only saw a flash of brown skin and black hair before the door hurriedly closed again.

"It's alright, Zamora, come in," called Severus.

The door creaked shyly open, and Narcissa caught a glance of a black curl. A tall girl came in, dressed in a blue-and-white striped summer dress; she stood at attention, up straight and tall, with her hands gracefully in her front. Pretty enough, for her type, Narcissa admitted, but not quite what she had expected. Her skin was tanned quite dark and her cheeks were freckled and rosy from the obvious sun of wherever it was she was summering. Her eyes were dark brown almond-shaped, and her face was oval-shaped with cheekbones rather high, likely something she inherited from her mother. Her hair was wildly curly in such a way that reminded her of Bella, when she wanted to actually tame it. This one's hair, though, was silky and shiny, and each curl seemed defined yet loose all at once. Narcissa worried that the Malfoy hair of silvery white would be lost should she produce an heir for her son. Her breasts weren't small, yet weren't big either; her legs were good, though, as were her hips, likely from her Spanish descent. Her shoes were stylish French ballet flats in nude, and at her throat hung—

"Ella Zamora," said Severus, "this is Narcissa Malfoy, and her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Lovely to meet you," she said with a smile; Narcissa noticed that though her top teeth were rather white and round, her teeth on the bottom were a little crooked. "I actually recognize you, Mrs. Malfoy, from your picture. Draco showed me the photos of your vacation to Marseille when he was seven. I even mentioned how much I admired those chameleon skin gloves you were wearing and a pair of my own showed up a week later on my bed." She laughed a little at herself, possibly nervously. "Draco's very sweet when he wants to be."

Narcissa smiled as best she could, then nodded. "And he gave you…?"

The girl touched the silver locket which hung at her throat with a well-manicured hand. "This? Yes, he did—that _awful_ Umbridge woman took mine in fifth year because it "violated dress codes" or some such nonsense." She was rather expressive when she spoke, not normally a trait of Slytherin girls, to be so…enthusiastic. "Anyway, Draco gave me this to make up for it. I just love it."

Narcissa hadn't even noticed the locket was missing, and she wondered for a moment just how many other things that Draco had taken from her jewelry box. She wanted to vomit at the thought of any of her precious jewelry missing, but maintained composed. Perhaps, she thought, if she's suitable, it could stay in the family after all?

"And what are you doing here, Miss Zamora?" asked Narcissa, setting down her port on the rickety table next to her.

"Oh, well, _Meme_ had an appointment so I thought I'd come and practice my potions for an hour or so while she's gone."

Narcissa crossed her ankles. "Your professor told us you were in France." Zamora nodded in agreement. "And how did you get here? Did you apparate?"

"Oh, no, I used a portkey. There's this chalice in _Meme_ 's house she used to use to travel to Plumfield, and from Plumfield I used the Floo."

"And Plumfield is?"

"Our old house," said Zamora with a nonchalant shrug. "Well, my grandfather Archibald's old house. It's sort of sitting unoccupied, just waiting to be used. My grandmother prefers living in Monaco, though, so that's where I spend the summers."

"And your mother doesn't live there? Or your father?"

Zamora shifted uncomfortably, then gave the best smile she could. "My mother died when I was thirteen. My father's since remarried…they live in New York City. My grandmother and father don't exactly get along, you do understand."

"Certainly…" Narcissa put down her port glass. "I'm sorry to hear of your mother." The girl shrugged, swallowing quickly whatever bad feelings there seemed to be.

"It happened when I was at school. I went home for the funeral and arranged it all myself. My mother looked beautiful there in the casket, like she was Sleeping Beauty. I had them use her favorite lipstick and her purple dress. We covered the whole casket with glimmerroses, her favorite flower. I think she would have been happy about it."

Narcissa wasn't sure what to say. Zamora did seem mature for her age, especially considering the small memories she had of her mother were rather insufferable ones. She recalled a snarky little Slytherin girl with slick black hair prancing around the commonroom as if she owned it, stinking up the classrooms with perfumed dragon's blood ink. Severus seemed to sense this awkwardness and spoke up.

"Miss Zamora, if you've come to practice your potions, would you like to show Mrs. Malfoy your skills?" With a wave of Severus's wand and a flick of his wrist, a well-worn red book came floating off the second shelf from the left and opened to a certain page. Zamora took the book in her hands. "I think it's time you tried… _this_ one." Snape pointed to the page on the left with his wand and Zamora's eyes went wide.

"Oh, wow! Really?" she whispered enthusiastically, bouncing up and down on her balls of her feet. "I mean—ahem—" She quickly composed herself and let her face go to a neutral expression. "I suppose it's worth a try, Professor."

Severus turned on his heel to Narcissa and Bellatrix. "Would you care for some entertainment this day?" He threw his hands up in a bit of a questioning shrug, to which the sisters nodded and followed him down to the cellar, where his Potions laboratory was.

It was admittedly appropriate for Severus, to be cramped in a tiny room with blue-colored light, surrounded by phials and phials of potions and jars and jars of ingredients. Quickly and spritely, the girl flicked her wand and wordlessly summoned the ingredients for the potion. She swished-and-flicked her wand at the book to make it float at eye level while she readied the cauldron for work; a flame was lit and she gathered the ingredients.

Oddly, Bella was quiet as she observed. They both soon agreed, as she expertly weighed and measured each and every ingredient down to the last sprinkle of common powdered rue, that the girl knew what she was doing. She looked up at Professor Snape after reading the entire recipe thrice over.

"Any advice words of advice on this one, Professor?"

"Zygumnt Budge," said Severus, whose arms were crossed, "was left-handed." Though it meant nothing to Narcissa and seemed to mean less than nothing to Bella, Zamora smiled with an understanding nod. A light went off in her brown eyes and she quickly went to work. In an unheated cauldron, she mixed frozen ashwinder eggs with ground horseradish and warmed slowly. She then rolled a squill bulb several times with her palm against the cutting board and halved it quickly, which resulted in more juice than Narcissa could ever imagine when she squeezed it over the cauldron. She then cast a charm onto her glass stirrer and mixed vigorously, counter-clockwise; when she removed her hand to chop up the Murtlap growth, the potion was still being stirred, almost too quickly to notice that she'd turned the flame all the way down to a blue glow.

Narcissa leaned to Severus as Zamora worked. "What is she making—?"

"—Shhh," whispered the potions master, his finger at his curled lips, keeping an ever-watchful eye on his protégé.

Narcissa looked back up at Zamora to see her adding in what appeared to be a crushed occamy egg, turning off the heat again. As the mixture cooled, she continued with her measuring, her calculating, and quick judgement of the potion's heat by tapping the backs of her fingernails to the cauldron's surface. A sprinkle of common powdered rue went in and the potion turned colors and sputtered, but then calmed. She stirred again and turned the heat all the way up. With her wand in hand, she made a figure eight and announced "Felixempra!" The potions room lit up with white light, and then a mushroom cloud appeared in white smoke over the cauldron's lip. When the cloud dissipated, Severus stepped up to see the potion. Bella lurked and slithered up on Zamora's other side, and gasped.

"It's—"

"Indeed," said Severus, patting Zamora on the shoulder, who then sighed in relief. "Well done, Miss Zamora. I'd award you points to Slytherin house, but seeing as we aren't at term, I cannot." Severus took a glass ladle and siphoned some of the potion into a glass flask, which was quickly filled with a glimmering molten-gold liquid that didn't spill.

"Felix Felicis!" whispered Bella hungrily as she grabbed for it.

Snape quickly pocketed the potion. "Come, come, now, Bella—this is a _student's_ work and shall remain at Hogwarts." He quirked his brow and looked down his nose at her. "We wouldn't want anyone to know the great Bellatrix Lestrange needed help from a sixteen-year-old girl, would we?" He smiled at Zamora, who smiled back.

"Ella, is it?" Narcissa then said, stepping forward, wringing her gloves in her hand a little nervously. "Do you and your grandmother have plans for supper this evening?"

The student shook her head. "None that I'm aware of, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Come to Malfoy Manor at eight o' clock. I'll make travel arrangements so you can floo there from Plumfield."

As if asking, Zamora looked up at Professor Snape, who then nodded. The girl then looked back to Narcissa and smiled. "I'll run home straight away and ask her." She then looked up to Professor Snape, who gestured her out the door; she turned back to Narcissa gave a quick curtsy, and then walked up the stairs.

* * *

Well this one was fun to write! More to come soon!


	6. Chapter 6

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 16**

* * *

The thought of leaving sunny, gorgeous Monaco for dreary England was wearing thin on Ella. The summer was nearly over, though, and so was everything else. She could breathe a sigh of relief and _finally_ justbe a sixteen-year-old girl, living abroad, lying on her bed in her own room.

Looking to her left she saw the entire coast. Ships dotted the clear blue water as they came to dock in the white piers of _Port Hercule._ It was so busy all the time, especially in the summer, where _everybody_ —Wizard and No-Maj alike—came to gamble their lives away and win fortunes like none had ever dreamed of. Sometimes she wondered what it was like in the off-season, but would likely never see it.

She would miss her room here at _Meme_ 's penthouse; the pristine white sheets, the white linen curtains, the full window pane that showed the Mediterranean Sea in its entire wondrous splendor…she would miss it sorely in comparison to her room with Tracey and Millicent and Daphne, all four of them crammed together under the lake. At Ilvermorny, she had her own small room, sort of like a loft, in the Western tower, and she could stretch out and be messy and dance around in her underwear if she needed to unwind. The clock down the hall struck two, and Ella sat up and stretched; it was time for lunch.

She rolled off her bed and adjusted her pink shorts in the mirror of her white vanity, ensuring there weren't any terribly unsightly wrinkles. Her teeth, too, were free of any sort of unsightly anything, and her hair was only in need of a re-tying of her loose yet elegant ponytail, flowing in waves down to the middle of her back like sea foam at night. She didn't think earrings were needed for lunch, so she left her ears bare. With a quick pinch of her freckled cheeks to bring some life back into them, she glided downstairs.

The penthouse was a gorgeous and lofty sight, as if made out of sea air. There were five bedrooms in all in the suite, all of which were in the loft suite that rose to the absolute top of the very-high ceilings, which did not skimp on the glass windowpanes all the way up to the top. Down the stairs you came into the entry hall, which was lined with seashells of varying colors. Inside were polished wood floors made of a special Chinese bamboo that _Meme_ had acquired on a trip to Shanghai, enchanted to never scratch or be dirty. There were lovely silk Moroccan rugs in jewel tones of bright blue all over, and cushy white sofas that looked like they were made of clouds. Through the living area, you passed several lovely art pieces, collected from all over the world, and finally to the dining room, which was a sight in and of itself. They lived in the Penthouse Suite of the _Hotel Sirene_ , which the Christophes owned. There was, of course, a lovely ancestral _chateau_ which belonged to the Christophes, just along the coast, but _Meme_ preferred to live near her work.

 _Meme_ sat in her elegant white hat, and elegant white dress with a giant silk rose that overtook her entire left shoulder, at the head of the glass table, in one of the glass chairs. The table was from Venice, you see, dating back to the 16th century, enchanted to never break nor scratch. The glass table and chairs were a gift to the Christophes from some King for some service done, apparently, but Ella honestly didn't care much for history. She was just grateful that the chairs were fitted with blue silk cushions to sit on.

Ella came and kissed her grandmother on the cheek. " _Salut, Meme. Comment ca va?_ " She sat at the right side, which thankfully meant the got to face the sea.

Her grandmother gave a smile and called for a cognac. "You are getting much better wiz your French," she said.

" _Merci boucoup! Je pratiquant."_ The table was set for two with white linen napkins and polished silver. Ella folded the napkin in her lap as the Cognac came on a glass tray. Ella drank from her water goblet as plates of steaming food came from the kitchen, setting themselves down. For lunch, they were having poached lobster with fragrant saffron rice.

"Ooh, my favorite!" said Ella when it set down in front of her.

" _Bon appetite,_ " said _Meme_.

" _Merci_!" As always, the lobster was so juicy and fragrant, just like taking a wonderful, buttery bite out of the ocean. With every pierce of the fork, a tiny gush of delicious juice came out. It was so hard to eat in a ladylike manner when there was lobster on the plate that you just wanted to gobble down, especially when it was this delicious.

"School startz for you next monzth," said _Meme_. "Your 'ogwartz letter arrived just zis morning, as well as an engagement announcement for your cousin Fleur. She iz marrying zat Curse-breaker boy from Gringotts."

Ella frowned, her mouth full of saffron rice. Immediately, she knew where this was going.

"And, she 'as asked for you to be a Bridezmaid."

Ella swallowed hard. She drank her water and dabbed her lips. "May I know why she asked you and not me? I haven't seen her in years. Frankly, I thought she hated me."

 _Meme_ shrugged and took another bite of her lobster. "Fleur zinkz you're lovely when you're not talking." She licked her perfectly line lips and dabbed them before saying "When I zent ze pictures from Chrizmaz, she mentioned 'ow lovely you are. She didn't know you were in Europe, and would like you standing next to 'er on 'er wedding day."

Ella managed a smile, nodding in a very reserved manner. "That sounds awful," she said. "I don't want to be up there next to those Veela. I'll look ridiculous."

" _Alors_ zat doezn't matter because you're doing eet." Ella rolled her eyes in disgust and continued eating. "While we are on ze subject, 'ave you given any consideration to your own future?"

Tucking a bite of rice into her cheek, the young Slytherin gave a shrug and said "I'm going to be a Potioneer. I've received excellent grades on my O.W.L.s that will reflect that. I'm going to be amazing and nothing's going to stop me." The way she said it wasn't in a bragging way, but rather matter-of-fact-ly. "But first I'm going to graduate Hogwarts as Head Girl. I'm almost there."

 _Meme_ nodded in consideration. " _Oui. C'est vrai. Mais_ 'ave you thought about marriage?"

Shocked, Ella nearly dropped her fork. After a moment of consideration of every possible angle, she swallowed her rice and decided on saying "Does this have something to do with dinner at the Malfoy's the other night?"

"Madame Malfoy 'as made an offer," said _Meme_ , pushing her near-empty plate aside, placing her fork and knife in such a way that indicated she was ready for the next course. Ella copied, even though she wasn't done yet. She waited silently as the plates were magically cleared and a dessert of fig sorbet with honey floss appeared in front of them. _Meme_ seemed to be waiting for Ella to say something, to give some sort of reaction, but she did nothing except for wait. Finally, _Meme_ took a spoonful of sorbet, and Ella was free to do the same. "Draco wishes to marry you."

Without thinking, Ella all but shouted "We haven't even kissed!"

This seemed to impress her grandmother quite a bit, for she gave a smile. " _Tres bien_. 'e respects your virtue." Inwardly, Ella was both laughing and screaming at the thought of her 'virtue.'

"I just—!" She quickly sighed through her nose and then composed a thought. "I didn't even think he _actually_ liked me. I've honestly been kind of awful to him all last year."

"You were playing a part," said _Meme_ with a nod of her head, folding her hands in her lap. "And you did very well at zat. Now zat eet eez over, I think it is time zat you start thinking about it."

"But I'm sixteen," whined Ella, slumping her shoulders and twisting her face into a rather pouty moan. "Now that it's over, I've been given the gift of _being_ sixteen. Can't I just enjoy that?"

Seemingly astonished by what Ella could only interpret her grandmother's interpretation of her granddaughter's selfishness, _Meme_ brought a hand to her chest. " _Mon Dieu_ , Ella! You are a Pure-blooded Witch and eet eez 'igh time you acted like one!" This was not true, but her grandmother didn't know that. "I'll not 'ave ze last of my line sitting around and waiting for someone else. We must strike while ze iron eez 'ot."

Rolling her eyes, much like the typical American teenager, Ella protested. "Can't we do one thing at a time? Throw me a Coming-out Party and see how that goes?"

"But we 'ave to decide 'o to invite. And zat means looking at prospects—" _Meme_ then snapped her fingers and a file appeared in her hands. " _Alors_ ," she said, flipping through the papers. "Fleur 'as informed me zat 'er _fiancé_ 'as several bruzzers—"

Ella nearly screamed; in fact, she opened her mouth to scream in protest—

"—I was looking at young Percy Weasley. 'e eez only a few yearz older than you. Quite talented, I must say. 'ead Boy of Gryffindor, quickly rising to ze top of ze Ministry of Magic… Academic, ambitious, a perfect fit for someone to manage ze shares and 'otels and casinos from above."

"Oh." Feeling immediately quite embarrassed, she thought of that tall red-haired boy in that fetching suit, the one that escorted Potter to the Headmaster's office the night all went to Hell and Dumbledore vanished. The thought of being related to Ron Weasley made her internally sick, but soon she reconciled the thought with the realization: she would be his _big sister_ , and therefore under her command. She then shrugged. "I take it _you_ don't care for the Malfoys, then?"

Her grandmother set down the papers on the table and leaned back a bit in the chair. "Do _you_?"

"I personally would prefer to marry someone I've actually met before. As much as it pains me to say, I do like Draco. He's smart and snarky and very romantic when he wants to be."

" _Mais_ you 'aven't kissed."

Ella shrugged, throwing up her hands in disbelief. "I don't understand why."

After a moment, _Meme_ sighed through her nose and said. "Everything is over wiz ze MACUSA _et vous, mais_ I don't think you should be mixing business wiz pleasure."

"Didn't stop you," commented Ella, perhaps without thinking.

"Neverzeless," said her grandmother, her tone a little more firm, "ze Malfoys are on ze wrong side of 'istory,' and ze Weasley family iz not. Frankly, eet eez becoming more and more difficult to find a Pureblooded family zat eez not 'eaded by a megalomaniacal zealot. And ze Malfoys 'ave just seen zeir 'ead of 'ouse sent off to Azkaban. I'll not 'ave you mixed up wiz zat."

Sighing, Ella looked down and noticed that her fig sorbet had started to melt, and her honey floss had completely dissolved into the purple-red goodness in her gilded bowl. She supposed that just wanting to be sixteen was too much to ask. Resigning herself to her(apparent) fate, she managed a smile. "I suppose there's no harm in meeting this Percy."

" _Bien,"_ said Madame Christophe. "Because you're already 'aving lunch wiz 'im tomorrow in ze 'otel restaurant at one o' clock." Ella inwardly groaned and cursed at her grandmother's constant feigning of giving Ella any sort of free will. "'owever, een ze spirit of fairness...eez zere anyone _you_ would like to consider as a prospect in ze future?"

 _Well, that's unexpected_ , thought the young Slytherin to herself. She stirred her sorbet absentmindedly while she mentally listed all the boys in school that she could stand being around, aside from Draco. "Neville Longbottom?" she finally said. _Meme's_ eyebrows raised in surprise. "I mean...he's the first person that comes to mind when you ask. He's kind-hearted and passionate about what he does, and he's a fairly skilled duelist. He was even involved in that whole 'Dumbledore's Army' nonsense and managed to survive Death Eater attacks. I think that says something."

Her grandmother smiled. "Young Neville's parents were Aurors. I knew 'is muzzer briefly before she..." She then grew quiet. " _Alors, quelle tragedie_. Poor Frank and Alice. Zey were so in love, and zey fought for what zey believed in." _Meme_ then nodded. "Very well, _mon petit coeur_. I shall contact 'is grandmuzzer for tea zees week."

* * *

Phew! Can I just say how _hard_ it is to keep spoilers away from you guys while dropping hints about what's going on with a jump-around timeline? It's HARD! But it's really fun.


	7. Chapter 7

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Draco 20**

* * *

Cokeworth wasn't as dingy as he'd imagined it to be, but that was perhaps because of the setting sun over the river. There were flowers in many of the windowboxes, which he didn't expect in such an industrial Muggle town. The old factory towered over the identical houses in the distance. The sun was setting, and he hadn't much time.

He felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck as he tried to discreetly walk down the narrow sidewalks. Some Muggle children rode by on bicycles, loudly gallivanting with no notice of Draco at all. His bones shifted, a little to the left; he still strolled slowly and appeared to enjoy the view of it all on this lovely spring evening. Noting the street signs, he turned left one way and then right the other.

"Are you lost, sir?" He would have jumped, but his better nature had thankfully kept him calm enough to simply turn around. A muggle boy, about seven, was behind him. His clothes were so mismatched and patched that it almost looked intentional.

Draco looked around, wondering where the boy lived. He wasn't quite sure if he should even be speaking to a Muggle, considering the circumstances.

"Are you looking for Miss Princess, mister?" Draco tensed. "Because you're going the wrong way if you are."

He frowned. There would likely be only one person called 'Princess' in these ruddy parts. "Who's Miss Princess?" Draco finally asked with a smile, pretending to play along with some childhood game.

"She's the lady that lives on Spinner's End. Lots of people in nice clothes come to see her all the time. And her house is the only one in the whole town that's covered in flowering vines." The boy pointed to his left, down an alleyway. "You can't miss it."

Draco bent down and smiled. "What does she look like?"

"She's pretty. She's got lots of hair and gives us boiled sweets when our mums aren't looking. And sometimes she invites me inside for tea when I show her friends the way to her house. She's American, y'know; but I guess if you're her friend, you knew that. My mummy says there's no Princesses in America, but we all still call her Miss Princess. Come on, I'll take you there." The boy skipped down the alleyway, which was narrow and lined with trash bins. "Come on, mister. I know where I'm going." The boy smiled and motioned for Draco to follow; reluctantly, he did. It was hard to maintain an air of aristocratic ease when he felt his bones shifting, his skin crawling, his shoes skirting near the filth of Muggles, but Draco managed to keep a straight face as they walked through the very narrow alley.

"I'm Skip, by the way. My real name's Barney, but nobody calls me that." Draco said nothing, but smiled. "You're not from 'round these parts, are you? That's okay, nobody that visits her is. Except us kids, o' course, we're all from 'round here. Sometimes we see Miss Princess on the rooftops watching the sunrise, but she don't fall never. And she's got this tea that tastes like clouds and fairy floss! She makes this yummy cake out of plums at Christmastime, too, and leaves them on our doorstep in a green box with a ribbon. You know what's funny, too, is that when you open the box its always warm. Ain't that something?"

 _That's definitely Ella, then,_ thought Draco as they turned the corner. Looking up, he saw a glimmering green in the sunset's light just ahead, at the end of the alley. His heart jumped to his throat as the boy made a sprint for the door around the other side. Just as the boy had described, vines were growing impossibly through the pavement, climbing all the way up to the second story and flowering up to the pitched roof in gorgeous purple blooms. _Of course, this is where Ella lives_ , he thought. _Even when she tries to fit in, she stands out._

Coming around to the corner, Draco caught glimpse of Ella's hand holding a silver plate of palmiers. Skip took two and ate the first while stuffing the second one in his pocket. Ella's voice sounded so different, so sweet and caring, thanking the boy for guiding her friend to her home. Draco wasn't sure what they were, but he doubted they were what you could call 'friends.'

"There he is," said Skip, nodding pointedly towards Draco. Ella leaned out of the house with a smile; her quick change in expression alluded to the fact that Draco was not at all whom she was expecting. "Well, bye Miss Princess! I'm gonna go home now." Without another word, Skip ran off down the street, leaving the two of them standing on the sidewalk, staring at each other.

Draco had never seen Ella wearing her hair up with a silk scarf tied in a headband before, nor in a white dress. It was a lacy eyelet that showed off her thin yet muscular arms, with a simple black apron over the skirt. She tilted her head in question, her diamond stud earrings catching the pinkish-orange light of the sunset.

"What are you doing here?" she finally asked.

"I…" He visibly shuddered. "May I come in?"

Ella looked up at the sky, then looked back to Draco with an understanding smile. She stepped to the side, motioning to the door. "Take your shoes off when you come in." Nodding, Draco gave a strained smile and tried his very hardest to stand up straight as he crossed the threshold. He slipped his black leather shoes off and left them by the door, feeling the cool wood through his socks. Ella quickly slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

"Come down to my laboratory," she said, moving the Persian runner off to the side and opening a trap door into the cellar. A faint blue glow came from beneath as she descended, and Draco followed.

Her potions laboratory was extremely well-stocked, notes and things flitting about in the shape of paper cranes. Blue glowing orbs of light floated around the low ceiling, and everything seemed to be organized by color instead of by name or what they did.

Draco put his hands in his pockets as he looked around, finding himself nearly unable to see in the dim blue light. "How do you see anything down here?" asked he, squinting a bit.

"Ravens have excellent vision that is extremely sensitive to light," answered Ella, poking around in the blue section of her laboratory. "Actually, I'm surprised that _you're_ having any difficulty."

Draco said nothing.

"Ah, there you are, you sneak!" she seemingly said to a glass phial in her hand. "Hold out your hand." Draco obeyed and felt a small sort of something in his palm, but could hardly see it. Whatever it was, it appeared to be sort of elliptical and blue.

"Is this a…tablet?" he asked.

"Indeed!" said Ella proudly. "Odorless _and_ tasteless—a big plus for that nasty potion—and it can't spill out over everything and stain your clothes or get easily contaminated…tablets are the future for things like this, and I am spearheading it. I've already got a patent in the works for it!"

 _Of course she is_ , thought Draco. _Ella is brilliant; whom but Ella Zamora could do such a thing?_ "It'll work?"

"My ideas always work." She gave a smile(he guessed) and put her hand on his shoulder in reassurance. "I'll stay up until dawn with you to make sure it does." She then took a goblet from her desk and brought out her wand. Ella gracefully waved it over the goblet in a sort of wave motion and cool clear water came pouring from its tip. She offered the goblet to Draco. "Bottoms up," she said.

Reluctantly, Draco swallowed the pill with a big gulp of water. He immediately felt the pill hit his gut, almost like a rock. Feeling rather sick, he doubled over and shuddered violently. Ella seemed to cringe.

"Uh, yeah, that happens sometimes…"

Draco looked up at her in horror, wondering if he would again be the subject of her experiments.

"Don't worry, it will still work!" she insisted, with much waving of the hands. "Just do your best to keep it down! Here, drink more water—" She wordlessly cast more water into the goblet and tried to force it down Draco's mouth, which caused more spillage on her floor and Draco's clothes than anything. "Alright, alright—come upstairs, you can lie down." She took his hands and guided him shakily up the stairs, which was rather hard with his groaning.

"You've killed me! You've killed me, you stupid woman!" he wailed. "Good luck explaining to the Daily Prophet how you've killed me!"

Ella didn't seem to care, just silently sat him down on her soft white sofa in the middle of her library. She took both his legs and put them up on a pillow, then calmly sat down in a rather out-of-place worn armchair.

"Feel better?" she asked once he stopped whining.

Draco huffed and looked up at her ceiling, which appeared to be painted with a scene of a lovely English garden. Silently, he took in the library, which was nicely organized with new shelves of white pine with absolutely no visible wall space other than that above the fireplace, which also appeared to be new, and fashioned of a gorgeous gray-green French marble. When Ella noticed Draco looking at it, she smiled and said:

"That was a housewarming gift from my grandmother." Draco must have visibly tensed, for Ella smiled and gave a dismissive wave of her jeweled hand. "Don't worry, she doesn't drop in unannounced." He breathed a sigh of relief through his lips.

Silently, Draco tilted his head over to look at her, the most brilliant and beautiful Witch in the world, and only twenty years old. She smiled, too polite to say anything first. There were many things between them that were unspoken, but the biggest was this: that he should not be there. Draco's wedding was only two short months away, in June, and the last place he should be is with temptation embodied. His eyes wandered down her long legs to her bare feet; her toes were polished with a blood red. She bent down to meet his gaze. "My eyes are up here," she said with a grin.

"I-I was just…" Draco cleared his throat. "That chair is so old, it doesn't go with the rest of your things."

Ella paused, and almost looked offended, but quickly smiled and dismissed it with another wave of her hand. "I'm planning on getting it reupholstered. Maybe a nice _jacquard_ or _toile du juoy_ will do the trick."

Draco glanced around. "If you can get one in the right shade of green, I don't see why not," he said. Polite conversation would not be safe the entire evening, but it was a good start. He sat himself up straight and adjusted his suit jacket and tie. "I should have asked; is your father here?"

"Hm? Oh, no, he's working in London for the week. I offered him a place to stay in my spare bedroom, of course, but he'll probably be more comfortable in a hotel. Daddy's like me…a bit particular in his surroundings, you do understand." Ella then glanced around absentmindedly. "I don't think he likes my house…"

Draco gave a curt nod in understanding. If Draco had a daughter as extraordinary as Ella, he might not like the idea of her living in a place such as Cokeworth either. Then again, if he had somehow managed to raise a daughter as extraordinary as Ella, he might be fully confident in her abilities to manage herself just fine. "I suppose I should thank him again for his aid on the case, for getting the Aurors off my back."

Ella then gave a rather hearty laugh. "No thanks are needed, I assure you. He gets to help his daughter, throw the British magical government into an upheaval, _and_ piss off his former mother-in-law all in one fell swoop. I'm sure he's glowing." Draco laughed and loosened his shoulders. He then leaned back into the couch, a bit more at ease. There was a moment between them when they were suddenly fifteen again, sitting together in the Slytherin Common Room, silently enjoying one another. Ella then motioned toward the kitchen.

"I wonder… Have you eaten?" Draco suddenly remembered the time. He had been working at the Ministry and had quickly excused himself when he felt the sun going down. He hadn't even gone back to the hotel, for he knew that what he needed most was _not_ there. The investigations going on all around the manor were taking up any free time he might have had, and his mother couldn't be bothered with… _that_ …since she, too was preoccupied. Finally, Draco shook his head with a smile.

"Not yet," he said, "No." He hoped that she wasn't about to suggest going out anywhere. A short two months before his wedding, he didn't need to be seen with her, unless they were going to Paris, again…

"Have you ever had chicken and waffles before?" Draco frowned in question, which was an answer enough for Ella, who smiled and stood. "Come on, sit in the kitchen with me. I was just finishing when you came."

Without waiting for him to come, she strode into the kitchen, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Draco noticed a mirror by Ella's door, which he checked his hair and clothes in before joining her in the kitchen. Tentatively, he poked his head through the door, where a combination kitchen-dining room was. The walls were painted in a warm yet dreamy blue, and all of the cabinets were perfectly white with antique silver knobs. Ella's stove looked to be a Muggle device, with many different buttons and knobs, but Draco soon realized that he hadn't ever _seen_ a Muggle stove before, so he wouldn't truly know the difference.

A mechanic device opened its mouth and out popped golden-brown waffles, which Ella snatched up with her bare fingers, so quickly that Draco barely noticed the deep thrust of the spoon in a pot of sauce which came up to her mouth for a taste-check. She moved so quickly and so precisely, like the conductor of a symphony, so gracefully opening and shutting the oven door and pouring golden syrup into a white milk pitcher. Before he could blink, there was a stack of waffles and a pile of golden-crisp fried chicken on the small table, which could likely only fit four.

"You haven't magically expanded the house?" Draco then said, gesturing at the small kitchen.

"Well, I did for the housewarming party. Once I saw how empty it felt when everyone was gone, though, I changed it back," she said, taking a set of white ceramic dishes out of the cabinet. "Besides, it's only me living here."

Draco leaned against the doorframe and motioned to her small round table. "What if you wanted to have more than three people for supper?"

"I wouldn't," she answered, taking two sets of silver from the drawer. "Any more than four is a party, and parties should be out on the town, shouldn't they?" She set the table neatly and precisely. Draco noted that her left hand was bare. "Besides, I so seldom entertain more than two people at a time that it's not worth the trouble. I much prefer it this way; if I get tired of partying I can just go home, alone, instead of having to awkwardly kick people out of my house." She then took a pitcher of a sort of brownish-gold liquid from what, Draco assumed, was a refrigerator. "Would you like some sweet tea?"

Draco sneered. "You drink your tea cold?!"

"Just try it, asshole," she said with a smile, pouring two glasses from the pitcher. She set them both next to the plates and set two linen napkins down. Draco then smirked and came into the kitchen. Ella took a dish of butter and set it in the middle of the table, then set a waffle on each plate, with a large piece of fried chicken smack in the center. She drizzled the golden syrup slowly over each plate, wiping any excess off the pitcher with her finger and then licking it off with a light smack of her tongue. He crossed Ella's path and held out her chair; she smiled and took the gesture as friendly, for she certainly didn't protest when she sat and he slid her in. In any other situation, he would have loved nothing more than to bend down and bite her ear, or plant a kiss on her neck. He, of course, minded his manners and sat down at the seat across from her.

" _Bon appetit_ ," she said, toasting her glass.

" _Bon appetit,_ " he said, raising his own and taking a sip of sweet tea, which he shockingly liked.

"It's sweetened with a lemon verbena syrup," Ella explained, sipping on her own tea. "My mom's idea."

Draco smiled. He looked down at his plate. A large deep-fried chicken breast atop a crispy golden waffle sounded rather disgusting, but he wasn't about to turn away anything Ella freely offered. Steam rose when he pierced through the breast with his fork, and juices ran rampant when he sliced a piece free for himself. It dripped with a sort of spicy-smelling golden syrup, onto the waffle beneath, which seemed to have kernels of corn in it. He frowned a bit, but still sliced off a piece of the waffle to eat all at once. This was honestly the weirdest combination of foods he could conceive of, but Ella was eating it hungrily. _Bloody Yank food_ , he thought to himself as he took a bite. The very moment after he chewed, he tensed.

A burst of juicy and succulent honey, the smell of roasted corn, a hint of spice dancing with the intense sweetness of the maple and crunchy sugar… He took in a deep breath through his nose to let the aroma of chicken and spices and sweet honey fill his lungs. He must have unconsciously made some sort of sound, for he heard Ella laugh a little.

"I guess I should take that as a compliment," she said. Draco didn't look up, for he was hungrily cutting himself another bite.

"This is—" He swallowed. "—delicious. Really, absolutely delicious. I never would have thought it would be, but it is." He gestured to the great pile of chicken on the plate. "I don't blame you for making so much of it."

Ella smiled and nodded. "The leftovers are great. But this much usually doesn't last me that long." Glancing at her plate, Draco noticed that it was scraped entirely empty. He was shocked that she'd already eaten the entire plate without making so much as a sound, and even more so when she reached for another waffle and a chicken thigh and poured more syrup over it. He slowed his own eating to watch how quickly and precisely she gobbled up her food. The plate was nearly half-gone when he asked:

"How much do you eat each day?"

With a shrug, Ella said: "The Common Raven eats about five percent of its body weight during the day, with fluctuations on warmer and colder days. For me, that's like seven pounds of food…which is often an entire chicken."

"This is an entire chicken?" Draco asked, pointing at the pile with the fork. Ella nodded, about three-quarters done with her second plate. After a pause and another bite or two of chicken, Draco then asked: "Doesn't it bother you, eating chickens? You're a bird, too."

She shook her head. "Nah, chickens are dumb." Draco gave a hearty laugh, which soon caused Ella to stop eating and laugh. Finally, as they returned to eating, and Draco got himself the other thigh while Ella ate just a leg on its own.

"Where did you learn how to cook?" he asked.

"My mom," answered Ella, wiping her fingers on the linen napkin. "When she was fifteen, she had this group of friends that she would get together with over the summers and they'd all drive into town together in some big Cadillac that one of them had." Draco wasn't sure what a Cadillac was, but didn't ask. "I guess they really liked slumming it in No-Maj Atlanta, because there was this diner that served chicken and waffles and my mom was obsessed with it. When she moved up to New York full time after graduating from Ilvermorny, she couldn't find a good chicken and waffles anywhere. I'm sure she tore that whole city apart trying to find it, but she couldn't.

"Finally, she got sick of looking and signed herself up for some No-Maj cooking class at some NYC culinary school. Incidentally, my grandmother was _horrified,_ of course, that she was taking cooking lessons and offered to send her extra money to hire a cook—but once my mom equated cooking to Potion-making, she got hooked. She actually ended up graduating from that No-Maj culinary school with full honors. She had all these job offers in New York restaurants, too, which—I guess—is a pretty big deal in No-Maj-land. She could have been a Chef."

Draco licked his lips and wiped his hands with the napkin. "What happened next?" he asked.

"She settled down when she met my father. I think she had just started an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's NYC as a Medicinal Potioneer when they started dating."

Draco remembered seeing St. Mungo's NYC on Ella's birth certificate. There was no possible way a child with non-magical parents was born in a magical hospital. Perhaps it wasn't the best time to bring it up, but Draco had spent nearly four years wondering if what she said that day in the library was true.

"You're wondering about something?" Ella said, quirking a brow. She leaned back in her chair and folded her napkin, placing it gently on the plate. "I can see it on your face."

 _She always could read me_ , thought Draco bitterly. "I know you're a Pureblood." Ella kept her face neutral. "I saw your birth certificate. It says you were born at St. Mungo's NYC to Penelope Francine Spelling and River Luis Zamora III. It was signed by the Resident Healer. Your parents are Purebloods." Ella said nothing. "Why would you tell me that you're Muggleborn if your parents are Purebloods? Why spread this awful rumor that you're adopted from Muggle parents to everyone? Why cause so much anguish for yourself, for your family and mine?" Again, Ella said nothing. "Do you know how different things could have turned out for you had you _not_ said such bile? How different it could have been for me?"

Ella took in a sharp breath through her nose and sighed a harsh breath through her lips. She chewed her lip a little, fire in her eyes, clearly with anger.

"Talk to me," he begged.

"Why?" snarled Ella.

"Because we have to spend the night together and I don't want to do it with you shutting me out again."

Ella shook her head in disbelief. "How can you talk like that? Seriously, how? You were the one that told everybody I was worse than the Plague. _You_ were the one that called me a Mudblood. _You_ were the one that threw me to the Death Eaters. If anybody shut anybody out, it's you."

"Because I thought you lied to me about your blood status! To everyone! And it turns out that you have!"

"You know what? I'm actually glad that I said what I said because it truly proves how damn shallow you actually are—promising me the world and dropping me at the first snag."

"Did you honestly say that you were a Muggleborn adopted into a Pureblooded family as a _test_ of my love for you?!"

"No."

"Then why?!"

Finally, looking away and closing her eyes, Ella said: "I said it to piss you off." Draco's jaw dropped in shock. "I was mad about what you called Hermione Granger—after I _specifically_ told you to leave her alone—so I said that I was a Mudblood, too. Because I was mad. Happy?"

"Of course I'm not happy—I'm furious!" Draco lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, nearly shaking. "You denounced your Pureblood status out of _spite_ for _me_?!"

Avoiding his look, Ella shrugged. "I told you, I was mad."

"How could you?" he demanded. "You stupid woman, you've ruined everything! We could have had a future together! I could be marrying _you_ right now! How could you do that?"

Ella snapped her head back to meet his eyes, quick as a cobra, and smiled icily. "Dessert?" she said, venom on her tongue. Shoving the chair back, she rose and cleared their dinner plates, nearly smashing them into the sink.

He could barely believe his ears. How could someone with such a great heart, such a capacity to love and give, be so damn angry and spiteful? How could a wealthy, beautiful, brilliant Pureblooded witch stand to set herself on fire just for the sake of burning those around her? How could her anger cloud her judgement so catastrophically so as to ruin any chance of any possible future together? Draco's mind raced.

If it _hadn't_ been for that rumor, Draco would be setting himself up to wed her and _not_ Astoria. Ella would be the one planning their wedding, walking down the aisle towards him, all in white lace. It would be Ella that would be moving into Malfoy Manor, Ella that he would carry over the threshold to their honeymoon suite, Ella that would be joining her friends for champagne as they sampled bridesmaid dresses in shades of silvery silk. It would be Ella wearing that ring, finally and _rightfully_ , for real this time. It wouldn't be Ella Zamora, it would be be Ella Malfoy. Ella. Malfoy.

Then again, perhaps he didn't deserve Ella Malfoy.

"Shit!"

His eyes shot up to Ella, who was now hunched over the sink, blood dripping all down her hand. Draco leapt into action and snatched the tea towel he saw hanging off the oven to quickly bandage her hand. Glancing to his right, he saw that a knife in the sink had been the culprit. Quickly he bid her sit and he whipped out his wand.

He knelt in front of her and took her hand, gently putting pressure on the wound. He pointed his wand at the cloth and sang in a low chant " _Vulnera Sanetur…_ " The blood retreated from the cloth. " _Vulnera Sanetur…_ " He pulled the now-clean cloth away to see the open gash on her hand. " _Vulnera Sanetur_ …" With the third chant, the wound closed with not a single sign that there had ever been a cut there.

Ella's breath stifled. "Where did you learn that?"

Draco thought back to the curse _Sectumsempra,_ which had cut and slashed his body to near-bits in that old haunted bathroom at Hogwarts. He remembered choking on the smell of his own blood. Shrugging, Draco simply said "Professor Snape."

"Thank you," said Ella, rather stiffly, glancing down to bring it to Draco's attention that he was still holding onto her hand. His eyebrows tilted up, his grey eyes pleading for her to look at him. She leaned back slightly, quirking her right eyebrow in either annoyance or question. "What?" she finally asked.

More than anything, he wanted to ask 'will you marry me' but instead he said "Are you ashamed to be a Pureblood?" Ella rolled her eyes and growled in annoyance. "Because of the War? The Death Eaters?" She shot him a rather unfriendly gaze. "Because of me? My actions towards you?"

Another deeply annoyed sigh came through Ella's nose. She closed her eyes and shook her head. "You did what you did to me to save your parents from Voldy's wrath."

"Ella, please," he begged. "Don't place a prejudice on Purebloods because of my cowardice. You should hold your head high and be proud to call yourself a Pureblooded Witch. You had nothing to do with that awful war, what they were all doing. I was there, I saw the horrors of the Death Eaters—"

"—And yet you did nothing to stop them. None of you did. Not at home, not at school, not ever. What's really sick is that every single Death Eater's child could have stopped their parents, or at least tried, if they'd just said _something_."

"I-I…" He gulped and looked down. "I didn't know any better."

"It's just…" She sighed. "Do you know how much that sounds like an excuse? I mean, at least in America we keep our racism to a polite knowing glance instead of trying to wipe out an entire class of people through genocide because, like, _historically_ that hasn't ever worked. And if the magical community ever gave a damn to learn even a tiny bit about Non-Magical history, they would know that. Of course I feel shame in being a Pureblooded Witch because, as a society, we just plain suck, and we're all too much of a collective gaggle of dickheads to admit it."

"You're right."

"I—what?"

Draco took in a breath to calm his racing heart. He set his wand down and moved his free hand to cup her freckled cheek; she didn't withdraw. "You're. Right." Ella's eyes said 'shock' but her stiff body language said 'stop fucking touching me.' "I don't deserve you. I've seen monstrous things happen in front of me and said nothing. That's not me. I'm a coward. I'm not a hero."

A little too quickly, Ella snapped "I don't _need_ a hero."

"Then what? What do you need?" Draco begged, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "Put me to any task and it'll be done."

Ella swatted Draco's hand away, her walls fully up again. "If I _needed_ anything, I would get it myself and certainly not depend on the one person who has, time and again, proven disappointing."

Draco stood suddenly, sneering down his nose. "You're a poisonous _bitch_ , you know that?"

Ella stood up quickly, as if struck. "Then why are you here?!" she demanded. "I'm nice to you, you come. I'm hateful to you, you come. No matter _what_ , you just keep on showing up! Why?! I'm the worst! I'm an awful, toxic, spoiled brat!" Draco backed away, seeing Ella's walls down again. He leaned against the counter, holding it more for stability than anything, for he felt as if his legs would give weigh at any moment. He saw a bit of a spark in her that wasn't the sarcasm or the charm or the sex appeal, but the spark of her that was the real person underneath all of that. That person was now begging for an answer. "Haven't you had _enough_?"

The two of them were tense. It was likely that it would never be easy between them; too much had happened. Finally, after a very long moment of intense staring and glaring, Ella let out a long breath and slumped her shoulders in defeat.

"Listen, you're right. We have to spend the night together if you want to make sure those tablets work, and I'm _more_ than happy to open my home to you. Can't we just… _try_ to not have this weird, earth-shattering thing we always seem to have when we're together?"

Draco gave a sort of smile and a sort of laugh. He looked up at Ella, who was giving a pleading glance with those gorgeous brown eyes of hers. He sighed and smiled, fully this time, shaking his head at her. "What is it about you that drives me so mad?"

Ella smiled, too, and gave a laugh with a shake of her head. "I don't know. Maybe you see yourself in me?"

"You mean the awful, toxic, spoiled brat part of me?" He was at ease now, taking a step towards her and placing his hands on her waist. She leaned into the crook of his neck and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"Yeah," she whispered into his neck. "That part." He felt her lips smile. Her hair smelled a bit like herbs and sugar. She then pulled away and patted his chest with her palm. "Come on. I'll give you a tour of the rest of the house."Draco pulled her back to him and leaned his forehead against hers. She didn't resist. "Don't you want to come upstairs and see my studio?" she whispered, her hot breath teasing his lips.

"I'd love to," he whispered back.

* * *

Phew! This one was fun! Not quite fluff, but drama. You get to see a bit more of Ella's nastier side in this one, which is fun.

Thanks so much to my readers! And, HeartofAspen, thanks as always for your reviews! I wish I could be as prolific as you are! Alas, I have two full-time jobs...


	8. Chapter 8

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

Oh, and a BIG thanks to my followers and, of course, HeartofAspen for the comments! Enjoy some light lemonade at the beginning of this chapter...

* * *

 **Ella 18**

* * *

"Oh-oh-OH MY GOD YES!"

Ella collapsed and rolled over to the side, not really caring about the slop that was now all over the inside of her thighs. Her hair was damp from her recent shower, her face was flushed and red, her sheets were now borderline crusty from the three days they had spent together in that room, but she wasn't complaining about _that_ …

"Oh my actual God…" she moaned into the pillow, smiling.

"Phew…" came a lovely tenor voice next to her, lowly groaning. Ella smiled and turned to Neville.

"That was great," she sighed, her whole body hot and cold all at once.

He grinned that dopey grin and looked at her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Phew. Good." He still seemed nervous, even though he had practically moved in since the party at the Burrow. Ella wasn't sure why, especially since they'd had more than enough sex to be comfortable with each other(at least in her mind); perhaps Neville was just a nervous wizard.

Neville closed his eyes and let his breathing calm. Ella curled her fingers through the hair on his chest. _Never thought I'd be so turned on by someone so hairy…_ Her hands ran over his body, lean and taut with abs to spare. _Puberty has hit this guy like the damn Hogwarts Express_ ,she thought.

"I am so into you," whispered Ella as she nibbled on his earlobe.

A sort of sharp giggle came along when that damn dopey grin showed up again, this time with an extra added glow to his already flushed cheeks. "Really? Me?" he asked.

She propped herself up on her elbow. "Do we really need to go over this again? I am your _girlfriend._ You are my _boyfriend_. Can I make it anymore obvious?"

He quickly rolled over and smothered her with kisses, all over her face, her neck, her shoulders, causing her to laugh and squeal with glee.

"Neville—Neville! Wait a second—" He propped himself up on his hands to look down at her. "We _need_ to take a break." His face fell. "Dude, seriously, it's been two days and we've been having sex for three of them."

"Oh, right," he then rolled off her and laid back. His face wasn't quite blank, but it wasn't quite thoughtful. "I guess we could eat something aside from that delivery pizza stuff," he then suggested.

Ella snorted. "If you could call that crap 'pizza'… Cokeworth is even worse than Hogwarts for proper food."

Neville leaned over and put his chin on her shoulder. "Let's go out somewhere, then? Have breakfast somewhere in London together?" He then wrapped his arms around her from the side and pulled her closer into an almost clingy hug. "We have the whole day! We can do whatever we want now! No more school, no more war…just us! You and me. Boyfriend and girlfriend." Even when he said 'girlfriend' he sounded nervous. Honestly, what did she have to do to get him to relax?

"It might be late for breakfast, babe; I don't even know what time it is right now." Ella gave a tiny laugh and patted his whiskered cheek, almost as if what he was saying were true. The life of a Pureblooded Witch was the life she was leading, and she was beginning to learn it wasn't ever going to be truly free. However, it was a beautiful day at the end of May, and the sun seemed to be beckoning to shine upon Ella's face. At very least, it might be nice to pretend that she and Neville _could_ truly do whatever it was they pleased, for the day. After all, they were both young and privileged, so at least _some_ joy might come of that, she reckoned.

She turned her head and leaned it against his. "You should shower before we go."

He shrugged in that nervous twitchy way he did. "Probably, yeah."

Ella sat up and nodded pointedly to the bathroom. "There are plenty clean towels in the cabinet above the toilet. I want you to use the green ones, not the blue. Got it?"

Neville then got a bit red in the face and tried his _very_ best to give a sort of seductive smile but it ended up being the dopey grin again. "Wanna join me? You know, in there?"

Shaking her head, the lovely witch stood up from the bed, the towel falling from her svelte form. " _I_ want to have _clothing_ on my body for the first time in 72 hours." She nodded again towards the bathroom. "Go. I'll clean your clothes for you while you're in there."

He smiled and kissed her and then scurried into the bathroom, bare-assed. Ella had to admit, he was lots of fun, and he did bring her joy, even though his behavior was quite akin to a nervous little Chihuahua. She knew, though, in her heart that beneath that scared little kitten was beating the heart of a noble lion, and one that had saved her in more ways than one.

Ella stretched a little and took her wand from the nightstand. With one, two, three big rings around her head and a point at the bed, she cried " _Tergeo_!" The sheets fixed themselves and the wand siphoned off any _liquids_ that were staining them. She then stood at the very corner of her bedroom and swished her wand three times counter-clockwise, and cast " _Mundatis camerameam_! _"_

Pillows flew, as did clothes and shoes, all swirling in a tornado of gray and argyle. The clothes were soon clean and folded on the neatly-made bed, and shoes were soon polished and sitting neatly by the door. The dresser drawers closed neatly and the fallen pictures from the walls quickly flew back up to their proper place. The mirror went back from being out of kilter and the curtains neatly ironed themselves. All of the handprints that were once on the windows were clean. Ella was pleased with herself, and resigned to the closet—the one place in her house that she had magically expanded and fully made her own.

The closet was a near-perfect replica of her mother's walk-in closet, spacious and well-lit with a full-length mirror and plush carpeting. Her shoes were neatly organized by color, and her clothes were neatly organized by season _first_ , and then color. It was organized so you could go clockwise around, starting naked and ending being clothed by the time you circled 'round to the door. Though her grandmother would say that Pride was a sin, Ella would say that vanity was one, too—and there wasn't a witch or wizard alive with even a touch of Christophe in them was sure to be swathed in it.

So what, though? A marble statue of a beautiful naked girl was created as a Goddess of beauty, once, intended for the male gaze; you stick a mirror in her hand and it's called Vanity. Suddenly, when a girl enjoys her own body, her own beauty, she's seen as sinful and wicked and vain. If that was so, Ella had long ago decided that she would be wicked and enjoy her beauty, for it was easily one of the most powerful weapons in her arsenal. Why not? If others were going to judge her by her appearance, she would use that. It was their fault for judging on the outside, anyway. Anything that happened to them as a result of their prejudice was _surely_ not Ella's fault, now was it? She certainly felt beautiful, now, all naked and freshly loved, and she didn't see anything wrong with that at all.

Anyhow, she picked a pair of panties in a navy satin and slipped them up her thighs, and found the matching bra. Looking around at the various boxes that were just on the carpeted floor, she resolved that she needed to have shelves put in quite soon. Perhaps racks and shelves over here, and then move her vanity over there? Oh, but then she wouldn't have the natural light from the window if she kept the vanity in the main part of her bedroom… Oh well, back to getting dressed.

After some debate and wandering around her closet, she ended up choosing a nude dress that was just off the shoulder with a sort of Boho-gypsy silhouette. She wanted something slouchy yet elegant, so she styled it with a coral necklace and pretty sapphire ring on her right hand. She realized that now that she was with Neville, she could wear taller heels. Oh, walking with Draco in tow was fantastic, sure, but Neville dwarfed him easily. Ella could _finally_ wear—dare she even _think_ it—her _three-_ inch Chanels! And just how perfect they'd look, she thought, with her ensemble… Slipping them on, she quickly pranced out to the mirror in the bedroom, which was a very nice silver-framed floor-length, and admired how she looked.

"My, but I am lovely," she said to herself, more than satisfied with her looks. A few twists of her wand and her long curls swept over to the side in a cascading waterfall, looking quite ideal. She quickly slinked into the bathroom, hearing Neville singing horrifically off-key through the steam. She tried not to laugh as she picked up her makeup bag and put on a few touches of taupe shadow on her eyelids, then lining with a charcoal eye pencil to play up her eyes' gorgeously exotic shape. A little mascara here, a pat of blush there…and a nice swipe of a shimmery coral lipstick to finish everything; a tap of her wand on her face would ensure her mascara wouldn't ever run, and she would just look like perfection today. Unfortunately, she couldn't stay in the bathroom for long because the steam was making her hair frizz. Even more unfortunately, the very second she stepped out of the bathroom she heard a _whoosh_ downstairs.

"What the—?"

"Ella? Ella! Where are you?!"

Her mouth went dry and her buttocks clenched in panic at the voice coming from downstairs— _Meme_.

" _Meme_?" she called down, trying to sound as calm as possible. She walked out of the bedroom with an _extremely_ false sense of ease and gently closed the door behind her. _Don't panic. Don't fucking panic. For all she knows you're still a virgin_. " _Meme_!" She happily called when she saw the brim of her black hat.

" _Ella, ma petite fille_!" Her arms came reaching and wrapping all around her in an embrace so tight that Ella felt her back pop. She quickly pulled away and placed her gloved hands on Ella's cheeks. "Are you alright? Are you 'urt?"

Ella didn't have to pretend to be confused. "What? No, I'm not hurt—why?"

A great sigh of relief came from the elegant—albiet overdramatic—Witch as she clutched her heart. Ella noticed what _Meme_ was wearing, and it was her Battledress; a fitted black dress with a plunging V-neck and long sleeves which only accented her black opera gloves. Her stockings were nude, though, her shoes were the black alligator ones. A giant yellow diamond ring rested on her right hand. Ella wondered what made _Meme_ put on her "I'm going to war" ensemble.

" _Meme_ , what's going on?"

" _Cher_ , I've 'eard ze news of what zat _awful_ little rodent did to you! Zat pig! _Cochon estupide_!" She dramatically paced her library, taking up all the space in the room. "Zees scorn will _not_ stand! _Mais non_! I am outraged!"

Ella genuinely had no clue what was going on at this point, so she simply waited at the library door frame, knowing that _Meme_ would eventually circle around to what the actual point was. She likely would have been able to surmise what the point _could_ have been on her own, but this was honestly the first time she'd worn a bra in the last 72 hours so her mind was admittedly elsewhere. She desperately hoped that Neville wouldn't come down the stairs wrapped in a towel, but if she kept calm and acted like nothing was wrong, then likely nothing would _be_ wrong. Right?

"Ah, but 'ere I am, going on and on— _alors_ —and I still 'ave not even said 'ello to you, _ma cher_." _Meme_ opened her arms and Ella came into them with a reserved smile. Her grandmother kissed her cheeks, and her forehead. "I am so 'appy to see you, my love." She pulled away, her long arms still wrapped around Ella's waist. "And even more 'appy to know zat you are living 'ere." She then suddenly looked around at the creaky old house. " _Alors_ , as in _Europe_ , not necessarily ' _ere_ …" Her grandmother then got quite the reclusive stance as she looked around at the dark colors on the wall, the old wallpaper, the tacky red carpet and creaky staircase.

"The house has good bones," Ella finally said. "Neville came over this morning to help me clean." _Meme's_ eyebrow quirked. "No, Miss Dirty-mind," Ella chided in such a way that made her convincingly innocent. "Just cleaning. But I should warn you that he's upstairs taking a shower right now."

"Ella!" gasped her grandmother.

"What? He got all sweaty and I said I'd take him to lunch as a thank you! As _if_ I'm taking a sweaty guy to lunch—ew!"

Ella must have made her case believable for her grandmother rolled her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. " _Alors_ , I'm glad zat you're bozs still getting along. I must say zat I much prefer 'im for you. I do still wish you would consider Percy Weasley."

Ella sort of cringed and then shrugged. "I mean, he's very nice, but he's shown pretty much zero interest in me, so…"

"Percy works, _cherie_ , all ze time—you must give 'im a chance."

"If you like him so much why not just hire him to manage the hotels yourself? Why do _I_ have to come in the package deal, too?"

Her grandmother took her gently by the chin and lowered her voice."I want to keep ze 'otels and casinos managed by _family_ , my love. Surely, you can understand zat."

Both of Ella's hands came up and cupped her grandmother's in hopes that she would understand her genuine sincerity with her saying: " _Meme, sil vous plait,_ I need somebody who needs _me_ , _d'accord_? One thing at a time—a Coming Out party in a couple of years!"

"You don't want to 'ave it this year?"

She shook her head. "No, you're not _really_ supposed to have one until you're nineteen or twenty, anyway. Besides, I'm really enjoying being eighteen right now; and this way I get to still date Neville for a while without it _having_ to get serious."

 _Meme_ sighed and squeezed her granddaughter's hand gently. She then cupped her freckled cheek and smiled with a shake of her head. "You were always in such a 'urry to grow up. Now zat you 'ave, you want to stay eighteen forever." She sighed through her nose. "I don't think I've told you just 'ow proud I am of you. And if your _Maman_ were alive today, I know she would be just glowing wiz pride." Ella couldn't help but blush and tear up. "Graduating top of your class, 'ead Girl of Slyzerin, and everything wiz ze War and all zat you did... Oh, Ella, I'm so proud to call you my granddaughter."

Beaming, Ella threw herself into her grandmother's arms and hugged her just as tight as she could. She felt a kiss on the top of her head, and a single tear came down her cheek, as if all the bile and frozen wasteland that was once her heart were slowly melting through her eyes.

"You mean you're not mad about all the stuff I said for my acceptance speech?"

A sharp "hah" came from _Meme's_ throat as she threw her head back. " _Non non!_ I thought it was 'ilarious—and true. And I know you meant every word… Frankly, I think zey needed to 'ear somezing like zat."

A sharp "hah" came from Ella this time, followed by a big smile and a giggle. _Meme_ looked around at her house again. Her grandmother clearly was holding quite a bit back; Ella was certain she'd find her new house hideous to the point of evacuating her immediately and quarantining her in Monaco. However, her motives were to keep her in Europe, so she simply smiled and complied with anything Ella seemed to want.

" _Alors_ …" Her grandmother went silent, scanning the house. "Neville certainly did a good job cleaning…I assume." Her voice cracked. Ella laughed.

"You should have seen it before we cleaned. I've already gotten my things unpacked and I'm definitely going to redo the floors. The walls have to be painted, of course, and the kitchen's a complete disaster…but I really do like it. It's mine. My name is on the deed."

 _Meme_ was trying so hard to be supportive of that dinky little house that it was almost comical. Finally, she said "I'm going to send you Antoine in ze morning."

Ella's eyes widened in shock. Antoine was _Meme_ 's personal interior designer, responsible for Hotel Sirene _and_ their line of casino cruise ships, as well as her penthouse. He was brilliant, of course, and a fiery flaming homosexual to boot—but he was also the only person Ella could think of being even marginally more insufferable than Fleur. "Are you sure? He won't think this is beneath him or anything?"

"Nonsense! I need to get you a graduation present, any'ow. I'll 'ave 'im come tomorrow, say….ten o' clock?"

The young witch managed a smile, even if it was somewhat forced. "Alright. I'll be here."

"My good girl," said _Meme_ as she kissed Ella on the forehead. "Where are you planning on going to lunch?"

"I don't know, we hadn't decided yet."

Her grandmother wrinkled her nose a bit in thought and then nodded, opened her black clutch, and handed Ella a golden skeleton key. "Take 'im to ze River Club. I'll let zem know you are coming."

"Are you sure?"

 _Meme_ shrugged. "Why not? If 'e is going to be involved wiz you, 'e should learn to get along wiz your crowd. Besides, Neville is a Pureblooded Wizard; 'e will be more than welcome."

Ella took the key with a smile. "Alright. I haven't been there in a while, anyhow." She suddenly remembered that her grandmother was wearing her Battledress, which seemed almost immediately absurd because she was standing right in front of her. "Are you going to tell me what you were talking about earlier?" _Meme_ gave a questioning frown. "You know, about ' _zat foul little wrodent?_ '"

"Bah! I would 'ave you never think of 'im again—zat entire family iz a bloody menace. Zey should all be locked up—!"

"Wha—wait, do you mean Draco?!"

"Spreading those _foul_ rumors about you! 'ow _dare_ zey 'ave your blood purity questioned! And zen throwing you to ze Death Eaters! Outrageous!"

Ella's mind raced as her grandmother went on a very long and convoluted rant—everything seemed such a blur over the last few months that she had nearly forgotten(or possibly blocked out) the entire Battle of Hogwarts. She suddenly became rather faint and overcome with a somewhat flashback of Draco's heartbroken face as he took her by the arm and lead her to Voldemort.

 _Draco_ … He was certainly not innocent in this, and frankly Ella could _kill_ him, but she couldn't just state that aloud since she knew more than what was at face value. But could she tell her grandmother? How would it look if Ella defended him? Would she be disowned? Disinherited? Did her grandmother just come from Malfoy Manor in her _Battledress_?! Oh, God, what did she do—did she turn them into slugs? Did she just murder somebody? Who of the Malfoys did she murder? Oh, God, was it Draco? He was a coward, sure, but he certainly didn't deserve to be murdered. How did she get blood out of her clothes if that was the case? Surely her rage is more the type that she'd cast some sort of blood-gush-causing spell, and not a simple Killing Curse, especially since she _knew_ _Meme_ wasn't planning on going to Azkaban anytime soon… But if there _was_ blood, is that why _Meme_ 's Battledress was black? Did she use the _Tergeo_ charm? Oh my God—is Neville _still_ in the shower?!

" _Meme_ did you just kill somebody?" Ella blurted in the middle of her grandmother's rant.

Every the Frenchwoman, she snorted arrogantly through her nose and threw her head high. "As if zose pests are even worth it! I just 'ope zat you can rest easy tonight knowing zat pig will never come near you again."

"Uh…" She genuinely didn't know what to say, as she was still a bit disoriented from having _both_ feet on the floor for the first time in several days, but like a good Slytherin girl she simply nodded and chose to stay fairly quiet until she knew more information about the entire thing. She couldn't say that she was going to easily forgive and forget, but this entire reaction did seem a bit delayed. After all, the Battle of Hogwarts had been at least a month ago; and from whom did her grandmother hear what Draco did to her? Oh, God, was it Hermione? That loud-mouth... Well, at least her grandmother hadn't killed anybody, yet… "I don't know what to say."

"You don't 'ave to say anyszing, _ma cher_. Just know zat I love you and your _Meme_ will stop at noszing to ensure my precious girl's 'appiness." She bent at the waist and kissed Ella on the forehead. "Tell young Neville I said 'ello, and enjoy ze River Club."

Ella smiled, not knowing what quite else to do. "Yeah, okay. I love you."

"I love you, too, _cher_. I'll see you Sunday for church." _Meme_ flicked her wand around and, in a tornado of sparkling white dust, she was gone. Was Apparating easier? It was likely. Was it as flashy and appropriate for Helene Christophe? Nope.

The young witch looked down at the golden key in her hand. The River Club was not the oldest private club for affluent witches and wizards, but it certainly was the most-exclusive. It was a fabulously grandiose restaurant that was on a magically hidden island in the middle of the river Thames, and you could only get in by using that key on a hidden keyhole on just the right brick on Tower Bridge. This lead you to an underwater tunnel that lead you to the island, upon which was the club. It was hidden in broad daylight, and that's why it was so perfectly discreet. You had to really be somebody to get into the River Club, and the Christophes were just that somebody.

Puffing her bangs up off her forehead, Ella walked upstairs to see if Neville was finished showering. When she opened the door to the bathroom, however, she noticed that the water was turned off but Neville was nowhere to be found. Quirking an eyebrow, she quietly walked to the shower curtain and slowly peeked behind, to find her boyfriend curled in a wet and hairy ball in the bottom of the tub.

"Neville, what are you doing?"

He gave a tiny shriek and looked up, covering as much of himself with his hands as possible. He gave her a very nervous and very questioning look. "Is..." he whispered. "Is your grandmother...?"

Ella shook her head with a smile. "No, she's gone." The lanky Gryffindor gave a large sigh of relief and stood to his full, glorious height. "Get dressed, okay?" said she, her eyes wandering up and down his body, all long and healthy. "We're going to The River Club." She handed him a towel. Neville grinned and dried himself off.

"I've never heard of that place," he remarked, stepping out of the shower.

Nodding, Ella said "That's just the way they like it."

* * *

So. I'm really sorry that it's taken me so long to get to this. I know that I do have a few yet mighty following, and that HeartofAspen has been reviewing and reading faithfully. I owe it to you guys to continue. Keep reading! It's getting interesting and it's going to get a _lot_ more convoluted from this point on, I promise.

Thanks again! Enjoy!


	9. Chapter 9

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Draco 16**

* * *

The smoke cleared from what oddly smelled like an old cave. "What was that?"

"Likely some first-years mucking about," said Theo. "Relax, Draco. We'll be at Hogwarts, soon."

There were far too many things on Draco's mind. He honestly didn't want to be there, but hadn't any other idea of where he would prefer being. His home no longer felt like a home, and London no longer felt like a safe place he could truly trust. He sighed through his nose as he sat across from Zabini and Nott. The entirety of the upper-circle of Slytherin had taken over that back cabinet, as they always did. Crabbe and Goyle were sitting just over there, and the Carrow twins had just left to find something to eat on that sweets trolley. Ella wasn't anywhere to be seen.

Since she came with her grandmother to Malfoy Manor, he hadn't heard from her, which was rather worrisome. Ella wrote to him nearly every day over the break, even if it was just a simple card saying "hello." For the remainder of the month coming to Hogwarts, there had been nothing but silence, and Draco hadn't seen hide nor hair of Phoebus nor even a scrap of ash from the fireplace. Had it not been for his father's trial, Draco would have gladly written her back, visited her, had he any idea of what he could say to her. His father was off in Azkaban because of Potter, and now Draco was the Head of the Malfoy House, as well as the latest agent in the Dark Lord's plans. He was miserable and felt sick ignoring Ella's letters and cards, her pineapple upside-down cake she'd sent for his birthday, all of her invitations to her parties and excursions to _Chateau Christophe_ … More than anything he wanted to scream until the rest of his insides actually felt the physical pain that his heart had been feeling. Draco could not scream, however. It simply couldn't be done, not with the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters in his house, over his shoulder at every turn… Not since…

Well, never mind that. He was looking pouty and couldn't allow that. He quickly swallowed the bile that threatened to well up in his eyes, his throat, and adopted a rather bored-looking sneer.

"Hogwarts," said Draco, sneering out the window as he watched the scenery pass by. "What a pathetic excuse for a school. I think I'd pitch myself off the Astronomy tower if I thought I had to endure this for another two years."

Zabini sort of shrugged and glanced absentmindedly out the window. "There are plenty of other schools, you know," he remarked. "Ilvermorny, for example."

"You can't be serious," snapped Draco. "You'd seriously consider Ilvermorny?"

"As if you wouldn't, thinking it'd be crawling with Witches like Ella," drawled Theo, who was reading a book on Occlumency. Blaise snickered at his comment. "As much as I hate to admit it, the Americans do have a rather fine school, and many more opportunities for us there, as well… Then again," he turned a page, "They're still Americans. It's still America. It's not home. It's not where we belong, really."

"Ilvermorny _does_ rank higher than us in a few subjects," said Davis, her blond head peeking up over the back of the other seats. "Ella's not just a genius at it. The American test scores head us in Potionmaking, as well as Transfiguration. They tie with us in Herbology!"

"Nobody asked you, Davis," snapped Draco with a sneer.

"Say what you want," she said with a grin. "But with everything going on, my parents are seriously considering moving. Thanks to the exchange program, Ilvermorny's accepting transfer students from Hogwarts now."

"It's true," chimed in Bulstrode. "My mum said it might be better if we move, what with everything." Normally, Pansy would have said something to shut that fat lard up, but she was nowhere to be found. Draco wondered if Ella's new reign of Slytherin House had been enough to bully even Parkinson out of the school. He hadn't seen nor heard from her all summer. "Did you know the Spellings left for America because of the First Wizarding War? The Death Eaters were after her grandmother, Helene, who was one of the fiercest Witches of her time. Her husband, Archibald, was a famous potioneer, too. That's why Ella's mum went to Ilvermorny in the first place, to get away from all of this."

A lump caught in Draco's throat at the thought of Ella's grandmother, who was by far the most terrifying woman he'd ever seen in his life. The way she looked down that long and elegant nose at him would certainly give him nightmares for the better part of the year. Truly, the Devil wore a black satin dress with the largest emerald ring he'd ever seen.

"How d'ye know that?" asked Crabbe, who finally looked up from his pile of empty chocolate frog boxes long enough to make eye contact with someone.

Bulstrode shrugged her massive shoulders. "Ella came for dinner one night over the summer. It came up." Draco frowned in question at the thought of Ella showing up at the Bulstrode's house.

"Ella's favorite subject is herself," agreed Zabini. "If you let her, she'll tell you her whole life story."

Theo rolled his eyes with a grin. "Well, if _that_ isn't the pot calling the kettle black…"

"She's _still_ nice enough to ask other people about _their_ summers and how they're going. Honestly, I think she's the only person out of all you lot to ever write over summers and holidays," Davis argued. "Ella even threw a party for the American Independence Day. By the way, Milly, why weren't you there? Even Loony Lovegood was invited."

Bulstrode gave a sigh. "I was sick. But I did manage to make it to her Bastille Day celebration!"

"Oh, that was so fun," sighed Theo who grinned with his rabbit-like teeth.

"Oh, are we talking about Ella's Bastille Day party?" said Daphne Greengrass, who had just come into the carriage with a licorice wand in her hand. She'd abandoned her little sister in the next carriage, it seemed, to come talk with them. "That was on my father's birthday so I couldn't go!" whined Greengrass. "How was it? She throws the best parties in the world."

"We took her boat out onto the water and shot off fireworks," said Nott, who finally put his book down. "We even had a makeshift Quidditch match on the open water."

More than half the carriage erupted with laughter. "Ella tried playing Keeper," said Davis. "She wasn't half bad! Oh you should have seen the look on her face when her father showed up, though—she was so surprised that she fell off her broom!"

"And then threw a tantrum about her hair getting wet," said Zabini with a grin.

There was a wave of sounds of agreement. "Did any of you imagine Ella's father to be taller? I imagined him _much_ taller," asked Bulstrode. "With much more hair."

"She gets it from her mum," said Nott. "Penelope Spelling had famously beautiful hair. I saw the pictures of them all on the boat. Her aunt on her dad's side's got big hair, too, y'know. Spanish people, eh?"

"Come to think about it, _you_ weren't there, Draco," said Zabini. "Even some of the Ravenclaws ended up at the party. After the boat we all went to Chateau Christophe and her Granny put everyone up there. Pretty shocking to think you'd miss an opportunity to be alone with your girlfriend in coastal France…"

"As if I don't have other things to occupy my time with rather than her stupid parties," shot Draco, rolling his eyes and looking out the window. _Such as dealing with that disgraceful trial, for one_ …

"Uh-oh," drawled Nott. "Trouble in paradise, methinks?"

"It'd be embarrassing to think she'd invite the Ravenclaws before she invited you," commented Zabini.

Draco bared his fangs, completely forgetting any sort of aristocratic ease he might have had. "While Ella's off gallivanting with her granny's money, _I'm_ spending my summers growing the New World." The room then quieted and looked to him with admiration. Slytherin House had come all too easily under Ella's control, and sometimes Draco only felt like he was still on top because she had chosen him.

"What's greater than Ella's parties?" Bulstrode dared to ask. The room's energy had shifted, and Draco had them all listening again; they all sneered at her.

"Let's just say," Draco began, "that I doubt I'll be occupying my time with Charms class next year come the new world Order." Zabini snickered. "Amused, Blaise? We'll see who'll be laughing in the end…"

Suddenly, the compartment door came sliding open in a rush. " _Bonjour_ , Slytherins!" came a voice that could only be Ella's.

Draco quickly stood up in shock as the entire carriage became a rather uncharacteristically loud clamor of "Hellos" and "I've missed yous" and "So good to see yous" chiming around. All at once, Ella bloomed in a flouncy chiffon dress in Mediterranean blue complimented with a fitted and impeccably knitted cardigan, and quickly became the subject of attention. Arms were wrapped around her and she wrapped them back. The Slytherins had changed around her in such a way that was nearly unrecognizable. Even Nott got a big hug.

"It's so good to see everyone!" squealed Ella. "Oh I've missed you—Teddy, you look so good, and these are for you—" Ella said as she handed Theo a box of black currant _pate du fruits_ "—Daphne, I'm so sorry you couldn't come to my Bastille day party—oh, Milly, come here—" Ella reached into her enchanted shoulder bag and pulled out a fairly sizeable green box as Bulstrode came towards her. "—Happy belated birthday!" Bulstrode's fat face lit up in a smile. "It's a plum _kouigne amann_ , my favorite birthday cake. I hope you like it. No, no, you don't have to open it now—it'll stay warm and fresh forever in that box until we get to Hogwarts. Oh, Blaise!" Zabini came up behind her and she smiled wide as she wrapped her arms around him warmly. "How's your mother? Did she get the flowers?"

Zabini smiled and took her hand. "She said for me to tell you that they were beautiful, and that they'll be a glorious addition to the garden."

"I'll have to thank Neville, too, since he's the one that really helped get them started—" Ella's gaze then fell upon Draco; the very moment they made eye contact, the entire cabin went silent. Finally, Ella sort of shrugged her shoulders and shook her head quickly and put up her hands in either question or annoyance. "Hi?"

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but then became rather uncomfortable with all eyes on them. They were, of course, the object of entertainment for the entire school at this point. The tension could be cut with a knife.

"Would you all allow us the compartment for a moment?" he then asked the room, keeping his gaze locked with Ella's. There was a beat of silence, then Crabbe and Goyle stood and promptly left, causing Davis and Bulstrode followed by Greengrass to leave. Nott gave Ella a quick kiss on the cheek in thanks for the sweets before leaving, too; Blaise sort of rolled his eyes at Draco and smiled at their resident American.

"It's good to see you, Ella," said he before he left. Ella smiled and waved goodbye as Zabini shut the compartment door behind him; Draco pulled the shade down for privacy, and then turned on his heel to face his _very_ angry girlfriend, who was giving him a rather impatient look. Merlin, she was gorgeous when she was angry; her red-flushed cheeks, her dusty-pink lips all pouted with frustration, her head held rather high and her shoulders pushed back to show how unafraid she was. Ella Zamora was the most beautiful Witch in the world and she had chosen to make Draco hers; and look at what he'd done with it, ignoring her all summer.

After quite a bit of glowering, Ella puffed her bangs up off her forehead in annoyance and opened her mouth to speak, which Draco quickly covered with his own, a soft whimper of surprise creeping from Ella's throat. Without even thinking about it, Draco curled his fingers through her fragrant black tresses, which were soft and thick to the touch. Her arms came wrapping around his neck, and her tongue came licking softly at his lips. Shyly, he opened his mouth and felt her enter, massaging and exploring, causing shivers to go up and down his spine.

Draco quickly lowered his hands and lifted Ella up by her waist onto the table, pressing his hips between hers, feeling his trousers grow uncomfortably tight, causing her to give a tiny squeal of delight. He felt Ella smile through his lips, and her fingers came running through his hair, then lower to loosen his tie. Draco grunted as he moved from her soft, delicious lips to kissing her cheek, down her neck, licking and biting as he tore off her cardigan to reveal her bare arms.

"Draco…" she giggled before his lips pressed against hers again. _Her lips are bloody perfect_ , thought Draco hungrily, inwardly cursing at himself for denying them for the entirety of their fifth year. His hands came down to her hips, which he pulled towards him; he moaned lowly at the pressure he felt against his throbbing member when she bucked her hips at his. Her knee came up and the inside of her thigh rested on his hip; Draco heard her shoe fall to the floor.

"H-Hey, are you sure?" came her voice, soft and breathy in his ear.

"Yes, Ella, yes…" he gently moaned into shoulder, kissing across her collarbone and down to the space between her breasts. His skin prickled as her fingertips grazed across the skin on his neck; he quickly threw his suit jacket to the floor. His hands came lower, his fingertips running across the nude stockings on her legs and up beneath the skirt of her dress, gripping hard on the bones of her hips.

Quick as a hiccup, her hands came up to his shoulders and pushed him back. She then took his face in both her hands and said "Draco, look at me." Her freckled face was flushed a gentle pink and her hair was in a bit of a sensual disarray; her lips were cherry red and swollen but smiling, even though her gorgeous brown eyes were rather serious. "Are you sure?"

Draco suddenly felt very aware of the movement of the train, of his throbbing erection, of the likeliness that his housemates were listening in this very moment. Strong and ever sensible, his American Witch had once again knocked him back to reality. He put his hands on either side of her on the table and hung his head, letting out a tense sigh through his lips. He felt Ella plant a kiss on the top of his head in, what he assumed, understanding.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I didn't mean to assault you like that." He straightened up as best he could, avoiding her gaze. "That was _certainly_ not how I pictured kissing you for the first time would be."

Ella gave a tiny laugh as she bent at the waist to grab his jacket. She brushed it off and helped him back into it, buttoning it at the front. When he shifted his eyes to look at her, she didn't seem angry or annoyed. In fact, Ella looked rather content; she even smiled.

"Then why'd you do it?" she asked, fixing his tie.

 _Because I've been dying to since I've met you_ , he thought. _Because I hadn't any idea you wanted me to until last month and I was trying to treat you as you should be treated, which is with the utmost respect_. _Because you are a powerful witch that is not only Pureblooded by wealthy and gorgeous and I didn't want to make the mistake of smothering you that lead to you leaving._ Draco, of course, did not say any of those things, but instead he said: "I thought you went back to America."

"What, and leave you sods behind? Never." He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not, so he just smiled, too. "Besides, if I'm a Spelling, too, I _should_ finish out my years as a Slytherin at Hogwarts…"

"What about the Zamora half of you?"

Ella shrugged. "Well," she began, "I think I owe more to Hogwarts than I do to Ilvermorny. The Spellings have a much longer streak of being at Hogwarts for centuries, and I think it's like…I'm finishing what my mother started? She left after her third year, I came back for my fourth year…if I finish my education at Hogwarts, it's _almost_ like she never left." Draco nodded with a tiny grin. "Anyway, it's been great getting to know Professor Snape, too. If I have the opportunity to get to know him more, I think I should."

Draco frowned in question. "Snape?"

"Yeah, he's my Godfather. Didn't you know?" His eyes widened in shock, then shook his head in response. "Oh. Well, just as well that you didn't know. If others knew, they might get the wrong idea, that he gives me good grades just to play favorites."

"Yes, I can see how that could be misconstrued…"

A beat. "He's also my legal guardian here in the country, since I can't be without one or I don't get my Student Visa signed to be here." Ella seemed a little amused at Draco's surprise. She then leaned in and lowered her voice. "Don't spread the news around, okay? I still would like to keep it a bit of a secret."

"Hmm," said Draco, nodding in understanding. "Though I do think Hogwarts isn't much of a school, I will admit to being glad you'll at least suffer through it with me." Ella smiled and laughed. "Do you think you'll stay here once you graduate? Here in the UK? Or do you think you'll go back to America?" She swayed as she thought, as if she were a flower in a breeze, then shrugged without giving a real answer. Draco paused. "What of your children in the future? Where will you send them, do you think?"

Without missing a beat, Ella said: "Ilvermorny. It's such a great school." She crossed her arms in thought. "Honestly, unless all of this bullshit ends here in the UK, I'm going back home. I'm not endangering myself _or_ my future kids with this Death Eater nonsense. And…I don't know if I like the culture here better than America's. It _is_ going to be better for me here, though, just financially, and that means it's going to be better for all the kids I'll have."

Draco's stomach went tight. He stayed silent and gave a smile and decided to let her continue.

"I mean, I've got all this old money coming my way no matter what—I've got a giant nest egg from the Coulters, of course, but I'll have to share it with my _awful_ cousins and my stepsisters, maybe… But if I stay here in Europe after I graduate, I get Plumfield, the Spelling's accounts, Chateau Christophe, my grandmother's shares and real estate investments. All of that's mine and I don't have to share it with anyone. I mean, none of that's _really_ mine, though, until one of them croaks. I, myself, have no money, save for the prize money I've won in Dueling and Potion competitions—but all of that's in a trust fund until I turn 17…"

Draco realized just then that Ella's fortune was comparable to his, if not greater, if only by virtue of it being international.

"…Then again, there really is something to be said for earning stuff yourself. Sure, you could argue that my dad is a "self-made man" by buying his house and taking care of his family all with money that _he_ earned working his way up to partner at Hardman and Red Feather, sacrificing and tirelessly working so that his wife and daughter could have a nice home…but it's not like he had to pay for his tuition at Ilvermorny himself, _or_ at Eromacys Law. He's got no debt and comes from an extremely privileged life, just like me, just like my kids will. But will _my_ kids grow up with the real gumption and real ability to work hard and study and try at something if they don't see me or my future husband working? I can only imagine what kind of person I'd have become if both of my parents didn't show me from day one what it was to work and earn something for yourself…but it's not like _they_ really had to work hard because they were both set up for success since before they were born—"

At this point, Draco had no clue that Ella was talking about. He certainly wasn't aware that Ilvermorny required a tuition payment, or that there were specific schools for magical law in America. And what in Merlin's name was Hardman and Red Feather? It then occurred to him that he wasn't _entirely_ certain on what Ella's father did, or _that_ he even did something for a living, and that her mother worked, too. He knew that her mother ran something of a Magical Creatures Rescue or some such philanthropically-minded thing and that she was the one that initially taught Ella to be a potioneer, but that was it.

"—and I suppose that the only reason I'm feeling conflicted at all is because I'm wondering if I would be _me_ had I been in any circumstances that were different from the one I am in now. The point is that my dad wouldn't be _him_ , most likely _,_ had he not been born to privilege, and I'm wondering if the same could be said for me. What if I was poor? What if I had debt? What if I grew up with a million brothers and sisters because my family was too poor to afford any kind of contraceptive potions? What if I wasn't raised with the Zamoras? Would I still be me? I don't think I would be me, I'd be someone else—and who would _she_ be? Or who would anyone be, for that matter…you know what I mean?"

 _Nope. No idea what she's talking about now_. _Blast, she's looking at me for an answer_. Draco sort of shrugged, giving a neutral expression with a tiny shake of his head. Miraculously, Ella took that as an answer and sighed and smiled with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"You're right. Who cares? We're here now and that's what matters. Why dwell on what _could_ have been, right?" Draco smiled, still feeling horrifically unsure of what the bloody hell she was going on about. "You're such a good listener. Thank you." She stood and wrapped her arms tight around his waist, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Draco smiled and wrapped his arms around her, too. "You make me really happy," she said softly." Feeling rather satisfied and relieved, Draco thought to himself: _I am never talking again._

She quickly pulled away and pushed him from her arms. "Wait a second—I'm mad at you!" His eyes widened in shock. "You ignored me all summer and then your mom puts in an _offer_ for me to be your wife?!"

"Wha—?"

"Now my grandmother is looking _all_ over England for suitors for me. You've blasted me years forward into a world I am not yet ready to be in, and I have you to blame."

Draco frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Ella's eyes were rather angry and annoyed, but her smile was rather sweet. "Do you _really_ want to know who your competition is?"

"There's no competition other than me! If your grandmother had a lick of sense, she'd know that there's no better than the Malfoy family in the entire country! We can trace our lineage back eleven centuries, for Salazar's sake! We're rich and powerful and proud. What more could you possibly want, you Yank?"

"Oh, well La-dee-dah, I wasn't aware that you were the best I could possibly do!" she hissed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Draco groaned in frustration, as did Ella, who put the heel of her hand up to her forehead in anger. "Do you have any idea how annoying this is right now? I am trying to _make_ something of myself here, and I don't want to be married off just like that. I do _not_ want my life decided for me."

Suddenly, the young Slytherin felt rather slighted and quite hurt all at once. "It's not 'married off' if you're marrying me," he offered.

"It's 'married off' if _I'm_ not the first one consulted. You get that. Right?"

Draco sighed through his nose in annoyance and shifted uncomfortably. He admittedly hadn't thought that this sort of thing were at all out of the ordinary to an American Witch. The Americans were admittedly progressive and it was likely that Ella was offended. He then wondered what American purebloods even did when it came to court and marry. Letting his eyes wander back to his girlfriend, he noticed her face growing redder with his silence.

"You don't think that's something that you should have talked to _me_ about first?"

Draco frowned. "I—well, it's…" He cleared his throat and decided to approach this calmly. He was a wizard of noble stock and he was going to act in such a way for her, if no one else. "Apologies, my dear, I hadn't any idea that my mother had done so," he said, his voice as sweet as he could muster. "I truly didn't mean to upset you."

"And you expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth!" protested Draco, tilting his eyebrows up with sincerity. "I only knew that she invited you over, I didn't know she was going to suggest we marry…" Ella crossed her arms and looked away, seeming rather annoyed indeed. "If I _were_ to suggest that we marry, I would have at least had the decency to properly proclaim my intentions to you."

The American witch gave a very skeptical squint of her eyes. "'Properly proclaim your intentions?'" she repeated in confusion.

"Naturally—honestly, what is going on across the pond anyhow? Don't you proclaim your intentions when a pureblood wishes to wed another?"

"I mean, maybe in _some_ old circles, I guess..." She groaned and paced a bit. "Look, most American wizards and witches are living in the _now_ , not in the past. We date first and _then_ talk about it to each other before involving the parents. Once the parents get involved it's _really_ serious. And another thing—going to my grandmother before going to my father?" Draco's stomach went suddenly tight. "Do you have any idea how pissed off my dad is?"

"Your grandmother told your father?" Draco's voice cracked in panic.

"No. _I_ told my father. Were it up to my grandmother, she'd handle the entire thing—but now that my dad's gotten involved, it's started a giant scandal in the US. Do you have any idea how many wealthy Pureblooded families there are in the US? You could fit pretty much all of Europe inside of Texas, did you know that? America is _huge_. You get that, don't you? Even if I were to just narrow it down to Manhattan alone, the number would be absolutely insurmountable to here." She held her head anger, then took in a sharp breath through her nose and blew it out her tight-lipped mouth. "Can you even conceive of how things are done in New York?"

Admitting defeat, Draco lowered his eyes and relaxed his shoulders. "No, my darling, I'm afraid I haven't any idea."

"I'm _all_ over the society pages now, and they're using candid photos from my Bastille Day party—the ones where my hair's sopping wet. How they got photos all the way from France back to New York City in such a rush is beyond me."

Draco hadn't bothered to look at the society pages in the Daily Prophet. In fact, he'd been avoiding the media altogether since the trial. He knew how awful it felt to be skewed in the public eye, and the last thing he wanted to do was drag Ella down with him. Finally, he spoke. "Sounds like the work of scandalous tabloid artists looking to make a quick sickle. You oughtn't pay attention to it."

"I know this might seem silly, but my dad's running for Congress, and he can't afford a scandal, especially with his daughter being overseas. And another thing—why didn't you come?"

"Come to what?"

"Come to my Bastille Day party? Or my 4th of July Party? Or even so much as respond to _any_ of my letters?" Draco shifted his weight uncomfortably and rubbed the back of his neck. "You got me Phoebus so we could keep in touch. I don't understand."

The young wizard shifted again, not wanting to admit how emotionally exhausting the summer had been for him. While she was off having the time of her life, he had been seeing his father off to Azkaban prison and taking his place in the Death Eater army. Ella didn't need to know that, of course; did she? He took a step towards her, offering both of his hands. "My dearest, I throw myself at your mercy."

Ella recoiled, crossing her arms. "I had plans, you know. My sixteenth summer was supposed to be party central and my boyfriend was _supposed_ to be by my side, or at least talking to me. I honestly thought that you'd just ghosted yourself out until your mom invited us to dinner."

"I—'ghosted?'"

"It's when you break up with someone by just not contacting them at all."

"My terrifying terror," he said sweetly, attempting again to come closer to her, "how could I ever 'break up' with you in such a cowardly way?"

"Don't you 'terrifying terror' me, mister. I deserve an explanation."

Draco's anger flared. "I suppose the fact that my father was sent off to Azkaban because of Harry Bloody Potter isn't enough for you?

"Hey-hey-hey—don't you blame Harry for this! Your father got sent to prison because he got caught doing something bad. The end. Potter just happened to be the catalyst for his punishment, which would likely have come anyway. And before you go off on defending him, I'll have you know that _he_ is the reason that my grandmother doesn't want me to marry you."

Draco was so shocked he almost fainted. Ella suddenly softened her features and lowered her shoulders. Never in a million years did Draco think that his father could somehow be an embarrassment, especially to a possible fiancée. 'Fallen from Grace' the headline on the paper had read the day they were dismissed from trial. Had this truly come to pass? For the first time, Draco felt a deep pang of shame for his family, and though the emotion itself quickly flitted away, the pain resonated deep within his gut. The mark on his arm seemed to burn, so much so that Draco feared it might set fire to the sleeve on his shirt.

"I-I'm sorry," said Ella, whose hand was now on his shoulder. "Listen it's…" She sighed and then pulled him by the arm to sit next to her by the window. "Listen to me, Draco." She took his face in both her hands and smiled sweetly. He felt his insides sort of crumble as her thumb brushed his cheek. "I'm sorry about your father. I really am. He may have made a mistake, but he's still your father. I can only imagine how you must be feeling. I know what it's like to have your father be your rock." Draco swallowed, inwardly horrified at the thought of crying in front of her. "But you have a real opportunity here. You have the opportunity to show the world that you are _not_ him. Even better, you have the opportunity to show that to me. And I'm more important than the world, right?" She smiled. "You can make the right choice. You don't have to be on the wrong side of history like he was."

 _Yes, I do_ , thought Draco before he could stop himself from even completing such a thought. _No, that's wrong. I'm not on the wrong side of history. I'm on the right side, the winning side. Aren't I?_

He watched her eyes, warm and brown, like a mug of hot chocolate from their mountain lodge in Switzerland. Her freckles reminded him of stars dotting the sky; her lips were soft and dewy, like the dusky-red colored petals of her favorite roses. It was only with some marginal relief that he realized she hadn't any idea of Draco's own involvement with the Dark Lord. Knowing what he knew now of Ella's grandmother and her family history, he was on even thinner ice with the one person he admittedly had a genuine interest in. He was caught, like a fly in a great web, with Ella on one side and his own life on the other. He couldn't abandon the mission that the Dark Lord had bequeathed upon him; Draco's life was at stake, as was the life of his mother and the rest of his family. Ella was pure and gorgeous and innocent. Could he involve her in this? Could he keep her safe from them? Was there actually a third option to his predicament?

"Do you wanna marry me?" she suddenly asked.

"Ella!" Draco gasped.

"Do you?"

"I—" Draco's face went rather red and he looked away. "This is not how this is done. I must be the one to state my intentions first."

"Then state them." He must have seemed visibly uncomfortable, for she followed up with: "You at least owe me something, don't you think? You didn't even send a 'thank you' for the cake I baked you."

Draco closed his eyes. The trial had taken a turn for the worse on his sixteenth birthday and when he had actually received the cake, all fragrant and golden with thick and glossy syrup on top, he had been too sick to touch it. It ended up sitting on his desk for two weeks before he finally threw it away, along with the pile of Ella's numerous party invitations and letters and postcards. One of the things that had made him most sick in that very moment was the stinging fact that hadn't even bothered to open the lot of them. Without looking, he took her hand and squeezed it. She put her chin on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek lightly. He sprung around, too fast to see, and wrapped both of his arms around her, so tight that he partly worried if he would crush her. Ella didn't seem to mind.

"When you get back to your room tonight," he whispered into her hair, "it's going to be full-over with flowers." Draco felt her smile, almost like a warm glow transferring from her chest into his. "I will make this up to you."

Ella pulled away; Draco couldn't help but return her glowing smile. "When?"

"Tonight," he said. "After the feast, meet me in your dance studio?" Ella smiled and gave a nod. She then stood in front of him and reached behind her back. Draco's shoulders tensed when he heard the faint sound of the zipper on the back of her dress going down. "What are you doing?"

"We're nearing Hogwarts," she said. "We have to change into our school robes." Shyly, Draco looked away; Ella brought his chin back to face her. "Look at me." He obeyed. "Enjoy this little preview of what's to come if you behave yourself." The train shifted and Draco caught glimpse of how…oddly…the top shelf on the rack was moving, as if it was being weighted down. His gray eyes looked back to see Ella moving the strap of her dress off her shoulder. Quickly, he stood and put it back up, then zipped her up the back. "What the—?"

"The only time a Witch should show that much skin is on her wedding night," he quickly said, looking away. Ella seemed rather embarrassed, for she went quite red in the face. Draco's eyes kept on the top shelf as she shuffled for her cardigan and pulled it back over her arms. If what he suspected was true, he certainly wasn't going to share his first glance at Ella with Potter and his damn invisibility cloak.

"Again with the wedding talk, I see…" jeered Ella, crossing her arms. Draco sneered up at the shelf, then turned to his girlfriend, who seemed more hurt than angry. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her tightly. He kissed the junction of her jaw and neck as sweetly as he could manage before she pushed him away.

"Come meet me tonight," he said lowly, more than aware of the invisible weight on the shelf. "I'll state my intentions honorably, and in the way you deserve it." Ella said nothing. "You know, we met one year ago tonight…" he tried. She quickly turned around, smiling wide.

"You remembered?"

All too willing to find something to make her at least somewhat tolerate his neglect, Draco opened his arms with a charming smile. "How could I forget?" Slowly, Ella sauntered towards him and took both of his hands. He brought her left hand to his lips, then the right, then pulled her in closer and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I'm going to make this night one to remember for you," he whispered. Ella leaned into his body and pressed her lips against the collar of his shirt, curling them up into a grin.

Ella nodded pointedly towards the carriage door. "Come on, let's let everyone else back in. Their ears are pressed hard against the door, I'm sure..."

* * *

Single scene(sorta), but lots of info! This sure is getting fun, and we're getting into the meat of the story! Thanks to all who are following and favoriting, and thanks to HeartofAspen for reviewing! It means the world to me!


	10. Chapter 10

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 16**

* * *

"So are you two even speaking now?" Daphne asked as they made their way to their dorms, leaving Draco, Pansy, and the other Prefects to their work of introducing the new batch of First-years to the Slytherin Common room.

Ella sort of rolled her eyes with a sort of shake of her head as they made it down the deep and narrow stairway, further down into the dungeons, deeper underwater. Their dormitory was at the near-bottom of the stairs, which seemed to go on forever. "Look, I mean, we _are_ , but I'm mad. Okay?" Phoebus, who was perched on her outstretched wrist, gave a sort of keening sound in agreement.

"He seemed sorry," offered Milly, who was leading the way down with her wand lit. Her tabby cat, Christiana, had already gone ahead, seemingly racing the four witches down.

"Everyone knows his family's involved with the Death Eaters. It's likely he was trapped from writing you, Ella," said Tracey, her golden waves looking rather dull and brown in the dark. "Maybe don't be so hard on him?"

"Of course they are," said Ella, stroking Phoebus's chest feathers with her other hand, "but that doesn't mean _Draco_ is. Not everybody has to do what their parents do, especially in this day and age—America fought and won a whole war with you guys over that."

"But you're going to be a Potioneer," argued Daphne, absentmindedly pulling her long blond hair free of her green hairclip. "Like your mum."

Ella rolled her eyes and looked up at Daphne, who was a few steps above and behind her. "My _mom_ only served as a Potioneer for a couple of years before I was born. After that she ran a rescue for injured magical creatures; and raised me, which was a full-time job."

"Do you think Draco will let you work if you two marry?" asked Milly.

Stopping dead on the stairs, the American sneered. "What do you mean, "let me"?"

The girls all stopped and seemed to go silent in the realization that Ella was unaware of something that they all were aware of. Finally, Daphne flipped her hair and crossed her arms and said: "Listen, I get that you don't know how we do things around here, but these are the facts: Pureblooded Witches that marry rich and powerful Wizards—like Draco—don't have jobs. They just don't. They stay home and manage their stately manors and raise their children. They get to live the life of luxury. Only a fool would doubt that."

Aghast, Ella made a rather ugly sound of disapproval. "Um—excuse me, what year is this?!" she shrieked. "How is anybody okay with this stuff today? How are _you_ guys all okay with it?"

Tracey and Milly sort of exchanged glances, but didn't say anything. Daphne continued.

"Draco comes from an extremely traditional Pureblooded family. If and when you two marry, it's not like you'll be expected to work. You'll be too busy with other things. It's not like Draco's going to let you neglect your children or the manor or anything else like that with potions."

Quick as a cobra, Ella snapped her head around to face her. "The question is not—nor has it ever been—"who is going to let me", it is "who is going to stop me?""

Daphne rolled her eyes and sneered. "It's worked just fine for the Wizarding World for the past eleven centuries—it's not like you can change that," Daphne replied, ever the ambassador for British Pureblood customs.

Ella stopped on the stairs and gave Daphne a rather bone-chilling grin. "Really?" Flipping her far-more impressive black curls, Ella continued down the steps, speeding her pace to walk next to Milly.

"For the record," her corpulent friend began, smiling at Ella, "I think that if anyone can change the world, it's you."

A smile came upon Ella's face. "Right?" she agreed. "Anyway, I don't see Draco and me getting married any time soon."

"Well, no, you have to wait until you're at least nineteen," spoke Daphne, matter-of-factly. "That's when you officially state betrothals, after you've had a Coming-Out. You can, of course, proclaim your intentions beforehand, should you so choose."

"' _Proclaim your intentions_ ,'" growled Ella under her breath.

"Do they not do that in America, Ella?" Tracey queried.

Shrugging, Ella sighed "Maybe. I don't know. Probably not."

A pause. "Well, what's American Pureblooded Society like?" Tracey pressed.

Ella shrugged again, visibly annoyed. "I guess I really wouldn't have much of a basis for comparison, would I?" She sighed. "It's honestly the only life I've known. I don't know if I could describe it. Not like British society, I guess. We're more…progressive?" The girls listened as they passed other doors on the stairs, still walking further and further down. "If a Witch wants to work, she just does it. Nobody really _thinks_ anything of it… I mean, you have the _option,_ I guess, to stay home and do nothing, but not many do that. Everyone's involved with something. So, essentially, if you want to be in the Society Pages…you have to be social. You have to be seen _doing_ something." She blew a rather low sigh through her full lips. "Are arranged marriages really still this much of a thing nowadays?"

All four of her friends nodded, a gradient of blond and brown, bobbing up and down in the dark dungeon. She felt rather emotionally exhausted at the thought of the entire concept of an arranged marriage, though she sort of guessed that she would have a lighter version of that for her own life. Of course, her family would _have_ to approve of any possible husband she might bring home, but she never imagined it being like this. At most, she imagined her father's business colleague having a not-hideous son who would suggest going out to dinner with her, but that was the most she'd ever thought of it. With her grandmother now parading her all over the UK, it was truly making Ella nauseous.

"I can't believe you're even questioning it, honestly," said Daphne, crossing her arms. "You'd think that the Witch who's managed to snag Draco Malfoy would be more gracious."

The American quirked an eyebrow in confusion. _'Snagged?'_ Thought Ella. That was a pretty damn generous term for what he was, all things considered... Sure, he seemed sorry for everything, but with as capricious as his affections seemed as of late, she wasn't about to call what he was "snagged."

"You're lucky, Ella," said Tracey, linking arms with her. "Draco's so handsome, rich, and he's the only son of the most-powerful wizarding family in the country. He's really the best anyone could hope for, even if they are headed by Death Eaters."

"Yeah. I'm Cinderella and he's Prince Charming," Ella deadpanned.

"The Malfoys _are_ very powerful," agreed Milly with a nod. "Should the Death Eaters—" she gulped "—somehow prevail and take over the new world order, _you'll_ be well taken care-of, at least. Pureblooded Witches like you will always have it easy."

That was the thing, wasn't it? Purebloods would always have it easy, no matter what. Daphne and she were the two Purebloods in their shared room, and Milly and Tracey were half-bloods. Ella would always have a say above what her friends would, and that was just the way it was. The whole thing was like being in one of those stuffy old romance novels, honestly, and the Victorian era was not one Ella cared for; too many rules. She was truthfully so sick of the entire thing that she was half-tempted to ditch Draco for the evening entirely; let's see how _he_ liked being kept waiting…

As they came to their dormitory door(finally), Ella stopped and stood in front of it. "Guys, can we just not talk about this anymore? I'm mad at Draco right now and that's that. I don't want to talk about him tonight. From this point in the evening, I would like to make this room a Draco-free zone. We can talk about him in the morning, but for now can we just…I don't know, talk about our summers? Literally _anything_ but Draco? Or marriage? Or romance? Unless it's about a romance blossoming for one of you, I do _not_ want to hear about it? _D'accord_?" The girls all exchanged glances and eventually nodded. Satisfied, Ella closed her eyes with a grin, sighed through her nose, and opened the door. When she opened her eyes, she was joined by her three roommates in a sharp gasp.

Flowers—fucking _flowers_ —were blooming, climbing, _cascading_ all over her medieval four-poster bed in an ocean of purples and blues, pinks and reds. Red morning glories vined up the mahogany posters to draw the eye towards the silk green canopy, which was heavy from all of the bushels of cabbage roses and waterfalls of clustered gillyflowers, draping coral honeysuckles and cascading forget-me-nots. Slowly, Ella came closer and found bursts of red amaryllis which seemed to grow out of the cracks of the stone floor, next to gorgeous striped tulips of every shade. Purple hyacinths lay in an abundantly generous bouquet on her pillow, arranged with purple-pink heliotropes, white violets, all wrapped in tendrils of ivy.

Phoebus circled the room with his outstretched wings, landing at the foot of the bed, looking rather picturesque among the blooms. When she picked up the bouquet, she saw the tiny sprinklings of yarrow flowers between the larger blooms. She shook her head in disbelief, and her lips crept into a smile, which then became a laugh. "You've got to be kidding," she whispered to herself. "You found Mid-Atlantic white violets…" Her fingers delicately touched the blooms. "I guess you _weren't_ kidding when you said it was going to be full-over with flowers…"

"Who—?!" gasped Tracey, coming closer, examining the arrangement with her mouth agape. "Was this Draco's doing?"

"No, stupid, Peeves decided to leave Ella an arrangement of flowers—of course it was Draco!" snapped Daphne. "But how did he get down here first…?"

"He's a great Wizard," cooed Milly, her plump hands tentatively reaching for one of the morning glory blossoms before quickly withdrawing them. "How romantic."

"Funny colors, though," Tracey commented, motioning to the purple flowers near the red ones. "You'd think he would go for a monotone of something…"

"He didn't choose them for the colors," said Ella with a grin as she inhaled the sweet aroma of the honeysuckles. "He chose them for what they mean."

"Naturally," agreed Daphne, flipping her thick blonde hair. "Purebloods used to communicate entirely with the language of flowers, in the Victorian era." She sat on her own bed and took her shoes off, trying her best to seem unimpressed. "Or are we not talking about him, still?"

Ella laughed to herself. "No, we can talk about him, now," she replied, her fingers brushing against the blue petals of the forget-me-nots. "I'm not _as_ mad, anymore."

"Well?" asked Tracey, whose bed was next to Ella's on the other side. "What is he saying?"

"Forget-me-nots mean "I love you,"" said Milly, who then grew red when the other three glanced at her. "Sorry, it's just…they do." Ella smiled as Christiana batted at a tulip. "No, no, Christiana—don't do that!" Milly scooped her cat up in her arms.

"Not _exactly_ ," said Ella. "The coral honeysuckles mean "I love you" and the Forget-me-nots mean "true love." She bounced backward on her bed, and when she did, tiny globes of light burst from the blankets in a thousand stars across the ceiling, fading away and falling like snow, which caused all of them to squeal and giggle.

"Go on!" begged Tracey. "What else?"

"Well…" Ella kicked her shoes off and gripped the bouquet to her breast as she pointed up towards the canopy. "The honeysuckles and forget-me-nots are obvious, and the cabbage roses are the "ambassadors of love", as they say…along with the gillyflowers—which mean "your beauty is everlasting and I'm forever faithful to you, even in adversity"—all are hanging over the canopy, which probably means… 'I am showering you with love,' blah blah blah…" Milly and Tracey swooned. Daphne tried her best to look bored as she rolled her socks down, but Ella could tell she was secretly a combination of jealous and impressed.

"What do these mean?" asked Milly, pointing at the red flowers all up the posters, and down at the bed's legs.

"Red morning glories," Ella began, "mean 'attachment.' The red amaryllis is a tropical flower from Brazil, which—when presented—means that they think the receiver is of a proud and _splendid_ beauty…" Ella flipped her hair, feeling a little more than chuffed. "…and the striped tulips means he thinks I have beautiful eyes, which I do, but it's nice that he thinks so…" She felt her cheeks going a little red. She inhaled the bouquet in her hands, the perfume filling her lungs, her very soul. "And these are all a very important message, probably the most-important of all…"

"More important than all of those other things he just said?" gasped Tracey. "I told you! You snagged him! You're going to marry Draco Malfoy! _My_ roommate is going to be Mrs. Draco Malfoy! Can I be a bridesmaid?"

"Guys, c'mon—"

"Oooh, Ella's in looooooove—" teased Daphne. "Look, she's blushing!"

Ella hid her face in the bouquet. "Shut up!" she moaned. Phoebus cawed and flapped his wings.

"Don't be embarrassed, Ella!" cried Tracey, who then sat on the bed next to her. "Come on, what do these mean? I'm dying to know!"

"Yeah what do they mean?" begged Milly, Christiana struggling to get free from being cradled in her arms.

Ella opened her mouth to speak when the door flew open, a looming, broad-shouldered figure appeared in the doorway. A greasy-haired Witch came in, and the both Phoebus and Christiana went silent at her presence. Her jaw tightened as her black eyes darted all around at the flowers.

"What is this?" she growled.

" _Guten abend, Brun-hilde_!" said Ella, her tone as sweet as the flowers she was surrounded by. "How was your summer?"

Pansy Parkinson stomped slowly into their dormitory, her eyes practically burning through the blooms. "What. Is. This. Mess?"

"Mess?" Ella gestured above at the canopy. "You mean to say that you've never seen an elaborate magical flower arrangement before?"

"Mind your attitude, Zamora," she barked. "I'm still your Prefect. You had your chance." She seemed proud of herself, thought Ella, who stood up, bouquet in hand, and sauntered to meet her in the center of the dorm. She smiled sweetly.

"I turned being a Prefect down," Ella stated, which caused quiet gasps among her roommates. "Herding Slytherin first-years and staying up after-hours to be a glorified hall monitor? No thank you! That'd be like herding cats. But good for you on being cool with taking _my_ leftovers." The girls gasped; there was murder in Parkinson's eyes.

Pansy sneered and snapped her wand at the flowers. "Clean this up at once, or else. I'll not tolerate this slovenly mess on _my_ watch."

"Oh, Pansy, let it go," said Daphne, from her bed, who seemed more exhausted and unwilling to witness a fight than to truly pick a side. "The flowers aren't breaking any rules."

"'No magical decorations and personal paraphernalia' _is_ a rule—"

"That was when Umbridge was Headmaster!" argued Tracey, standing.

"These were a gift. Draco left these for me," stated Ella, "and I intend to keep them up for as long as the enchantment lasts. If _you_ have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with him."

The greasy-haired witch snorted. "And you expect me to believe that he snuck into the Girls' dormitory to construct this monstrosity?" As if on cue, a folded paper crane flitted through the open door. Ella opened her hands and caught it quickly in her fingers.

"Speak of the Devil," she said, grinning. Pansy growled and opened her mouth to scream at Ella, but Milly quickly stood up.

"Stop it, Pansy," she said, tears in her fat eyes. "I-I'm sick of this. Leave Ella alone. I-I-I'm sick of you b-b-bullying her around."

"How _dare_ you speak to me that way?!" shrieked Pansy. "I am your Prefect!"

"You're bullying Ella and we want it to stop," said Tracey, shakily coming up at Ella's side. "You've had it out for her since she first came here. The exchange program is meant to make friends, not enemies."

"Shut it, Davis, or I'll write you up, too."

"Hah!" blasted Ella. "I would _love_ to see you write me up to Professor Snape. In fact, I dare you. Go on. Write me up. Write _Tracey_ and Milly up, too, for coming to my aid against your totalitarianism. See what happens when you write me up for there being a gift of _flowers_ from my _boyfriend_ on my bed when I got to my dorm after a long summer of being apart. Please. Please, do it. I cannot wait to see what happens when you pull that."

The tension could be cut with a knife. "Get. Rid of this." Pansy finally snarled, turning on her heel and walking out, slamming the door rather hard.

" _Jawhol, mein herr_ ," whispered Ella, jokingly saluting. Turning and looking, her two half-blooded friends' hands were shaking, their faces red and white all at once. Ella had been shouting for herself her entire life; she supposed it never occurred to her how hard it might be to stand up to bullies for others. With the bouquet in one hand and the paper crane in the other, she wrapped her arms around her friends and hugged them all tight. Milly and Tracey were both shaking. "Thanks, guys," she whispered, and her friends hugged her tighter.

Daphne sort of groaned, and all three of them turned their heads to see her lounging on her bed. "Uh-oh," said Ella. "I think Daphne's feeling left out of our group hug." Tracey smiled. Daphne's face changed with a creeping horror of realization of what was about to happen. "You know what that means…"

"Don't." Whispered Daphne.

"Group hug!" A wave of brown, blonde, and black with flashes of purple came flying to Daphne's bed as all four of them piled onto the tiny four-poster in shrieking laughter. "Guys-guys—careful, my flowers!" laughed Ella, landing her head on Daphne's belly like a pillow, while Tracey settled by lying down next to her and wrapping her arms around Daphne's shoulders. Milly sat at the foot of the bed, smiling. Ella took her paper crane and opened it.

"What's it say?" asked Milly.

On the parchment, Ella found a sort of stick-figure-esque drawing of a curly-haired girl in a crudely-drawn black dress dancing with a smiling boy. Underneath the dancing stick figures was Draco's handwriting, which read "10 o' clock?" Ella smiled and inhaled the bouquet again.

"Well?" asked Tracey.

Ella sat up and smiled. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all." She winked at her friends and stuffed the crane in her pocket. She inhaled the flowers once again, resolving to let go any anger she might be feeling, at least for the night.

"Boring," sighed Daphne.

"The less you know, the less you can tell _Brun-hilde_ when she comes to call again. Trust me, it's for your own safety."

"The flowers, then?" asked Milly, smiling tentatively. "At least tell us what that means."

Ella grinned and plucked a pink-purple heliotrope. "This one means "devotion"—" she placed the flower on her lap, then plucked an ivy leaf "—and Ivy usually means "fidelity", too, specifically the _wedded_ kind—" Tracey gave a very dramatic, swoony sigh as the purple hyacinth bloom came next from her bouquet "—purple hyacinths, specifically, mean to say "I'm sorry, please forgive me, I'm so sad about what I've done"—" and finally she plucked the white violet "—and, finally, the white violet, means "let's take a chance on happiness.""

"That's so romantic," sighed Milly. "I wish Draco was _my_ boyfriend…" The three of them looked up. "I-I mean, not that I'd ever try and take him from you, Ella—I mean that I—"

"Oh, relax," laughed Ella with a wry grin. "If Draco were that easy to steal then I couldn't very well call him mine, could I?" What a funny thought, mused Ella. That Draco was _hers_. This was going to get difficult should they continue passed their graduation date, of course, especially if her grandmother wasn't going to come around. The Malfoys and their less-than-desirable political history weren't ideal, of course, but any wizard that could work up _this_ much of a show in such a small amount of time certainly was worth a real attempt. Ella truly did want to believe that Draco was different, that he could break free of all of his hatred and prejudice that the Death Eaters stood upon. Well, that was a conversation for another evening.

Standing, Ella stretched and inhaled her bouquet once more, simply insatiable with the perfume. Instead of keeping it alive, Ella hung it upside-down on one of the posts of her bed so that it would dry. Silently, she dug through her trunk and pulled out her potions kit as her friends watched.

"What are you looking for?" Daphne finally asked.

She opened one of the drawers and pulled out a tube of sparkling blue-black powder, held tight with a cork. If you were to watch it closely, you would notice gold flecks of what looked like shooting stars swirling inside in a gentle lull, almost like waves.

"An alibi for all of you," she said as she held her breath, opened the phial, poured a bit into her palm and blew a great cloud of black-blue-gold-sparkling glitter-smoke towards them. Ella quickly corked the tube and covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve. When the glittery dust settled, all three of her friends were passed-out in a drunken pile of open-mouthed breathing, snoring loudly. Satisfied, Ella smiled at her latest invention, which she was calling Polvosueno, an extremely potent sleep powder that gave you vividly pleasant dreams. If she could do this at sixteen, just imagine what she could do next year…

* * *

Ella's dance studio was dark, the only light coming from the glowing kelp of the merpeople's lanterns, which could be seen faintly through the enchanted windows. She pulled out her wand and cast " _Lumos maximus_ " into the center of the room, where the chandelier hung. Light filled the room, cast along all of the mirrors, reflecting the clean stone floors and steps, and the wooden section of pine that was polished for dancing. She was alone.

Frowning, Ella came down the stone steps to the white pine dance floor, her dancing shoes clicking and echoing all around. All at once, all of the torchlights were lit, and when she turned, she saw Draco standing by the piano, complete in a white bow-tie and pristine dress shirt with tastefully jeweled buttons going down the front of his dress robes. A field of white violets covered that old piano, and surrounded the dance floor in bouquets. He smiled that trademark grin and Ella couldn't breathe.

"You're late."

"Fashionably so, I hope," replied Ella, using every bit of her will to not melt into a puddle on the floor; her knees felt about as structurally sound as a _crème caramel_. "At least I look good," she said, gesturing to her hair, which was curled into a stylish sweeping wave, complete with a crown of the white violets and the cabbage roses.

He eyed her up and down, walking towards her slowly. The skin on the back of Ella's thighs went prickly with goosebumps with every one of his steps. He took both of her hands in his and kissed her at the junction of her jaw and neck. "Happy anniversary, darling. I'm glad you decided on the black dress."

"Considering it's the one that you drew, I figured it was a safe bet." She was trying to be charming and seductive, but she desperately feared she would collapse at any moment. Ella hoped that the sounds of the lake through the windows were enough to drown out the thumping sound of her pounding heart.

Draco smiled and circled an arm around her waist and planted a kiss at the corner of her mouth, close-lipped, chaste, but loving. "This is the one that changes, isn't it?" he asked, his other hand tugging a bit at the ruffle of her skirt.

"Yeah…" A beat. "But I'm afraid I don't have anything stored on this dress to match you right now," she said, gesturing to his perfectly pristine dress robes.

"That's alright," he said, pulling out his wand. "I've got that covered." He pulled away and circled her, Ella suddenly overcome with a rush of adrenaline. "Now, what's that charm you use to create your clothes and shoes?"

A beat. "Bibbity bobbity boo?" she said. Draco quirked an eyebrow as he mouthed the spell with confusion. "It's this charm I learned a long time ago… Why?"

Smiling, Draco took a few paces away from her, circling larger and larger. "Two years ago, the TriWizard Tournament came to Hogwarts, and with it came the Yule Ball. I was a fourth-year, and I took Pansy Parkinson as my date…"

"Well, that explains a lot," muttered Ella to herself.

"…And since I've met you, all I've wanted to do is buy you a beautiful gown and take you to a ball." Ella's heart skipped a beat; Draco stopped right in front of her, about ten paces away. "Now, how do you do it?"

"Um…" Ella gave a nervous sort of laugh, trying her very best to keep her composure, and brought both of her arms out. "Like this." She swung both her arms out, then up, bending at the elbows, and then forward to a point. "It's like you're a conductor at a symphony. And you have to think really, really clearly of what you're trying to make, and keep that picture in your head, no matter how long the magic takes… You have to concentrate. Hard." Almost unsure of her own words, she laughed again. "What are you up to?"

Draco was smiling through a very serious look in his eyes. He was looking her up and down from every angle. "Trust me?" he finally asked, presenting his wand.

The short answer was "no." Many Witches feared heights or snakes, where Ella feared trusting others. Her father once told her that the simple fact that she was aware of this trait in herself was a sign that she, ultimately, wanted to change it. Loving someone was an act of trust, mostly that everything will be alright, and that certainly nobody would die horribly and leave a loving and heartbroken family behind….at least, that's how Ella viewed it. She sometimes wondered if she'd ever get over her mother's death. For now, the short answer was "no," and this had nothing to do with the handsome and charming wizard standing in front of her—it was all because of the person that she was, and that wasn't fair to Draco.

Look at him. Just look at him. He was so handsome and so charming. He really was everything a Witch could hope for. Oh, sure, he had his hang-ups and his emotional constipations, a bit of a temper…but who didn't? And who was Ella to talk about having a temper? At his core, he was so, so good; and he was trying so, so, so hard. If _he_ could take a chance and be brave, especially under Death Eater influence (if the rumors were true) then she could, too. She touched one of the white violets in her hair gently, asking for its strength.

Ella took in a breath through her nose and closed her eyes with a smile. She let out a long breath through her lips and nodded. "Yes. Okay. I trust you." Draco raised his wand. "Just—" he paused "—not yellow." He smiled.

"Perish the thought of yellow on you."

Her heart skipped a beat as she closed her eyes, clenching her fists with anticipation.

"Ella." She opened her eyes. "Spin around. Don't make me do all the work." She gave a tiny laugh and slowly began to turn.

She looked up to the wall of mirrors, using her reflection to spot herself as she slowly twirled. " _Bibbity bobbity boo!_ " she heard Draco say, and sparkles of green came swirling in lilting waves towards her. As she turned, the spell clung to her black dress, and came all up her torso, all down her back and legs. She began to twirl faster and the lights from the spell grew brighter and brighter, glowing from green to silver to gold, with the grace of a perfect design. Finally, she raised her arms and twirled in a big one-two-three pirouette with a laugh and a ring of gold light came bursting out from the spell to reveal what Draco had created.

Ella gasped as she looked down at the gorgeous ballgown draped on her body. The body of the dress was a gorgeous nude color—an _actual_ nude, too, and not that weird pink color that never looked right on her tan skin—perfectly caramel, perfectly tanned, looking just the right shade on her sun-kissed arms. It was sleeveless with a classic Queen Anne neckline and dainty cap sleeves that layered and ruffled just so with gorgeous beaded lace. Lace? Oh, yes—layering over the nude silhouette, which was full and flowing, was the most beautiful beaded lace Ella could imagine, all in Slytherin green, going down to a scalloped edge at the floor.

Finally, Ella looked up at the mirror; she almost didn't recognize herself. She was herself, of course, but not the version of herself that she would normally be. Lace, as a fabric choice, was utterly feminine and old-fashioned, but the bold shade of green suggested growth, nature, financial security, even healing. The basque waistline made her torso look lean and long. In this dress, she was magnificently elegant with a touch of innocence and purity that made Ella feel like royalty; perhaps this was the way that Draco saw her?

"Well?" Draco snapped her out of her daze. She realized that she must have been staring at herself for quite some time.

"I-I…" she stumbled, noticing even more details in the lace the more she looked. "I can't speak."

Draco pursed his lips, impressed with himself. "I didn't think that was possible."

"Oh shut up," Ella said, lifting the skirt to see her black dancing shoes. She clicked her heels three times and they transformed into their signature sparkling green color. "There. Much better." When she turned her head to look at Draco, she noticed how satisfied he looked with himself. "Getting it right on the first try, hm?" she commented. "Good job." Ella was impressed with herself, as well, for how calm she was being.

"I take it you like it, then," he remarked, gazing at her reflection.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the mirror. "My hair doesn't match, though," she said, picking at her loose curls that were woven with roses and violets.

Draco gave a tiny laugh and looked at the flowers in her hair. "At least I know you got them," he said. Ella almost told him about the grief that Pansy gave her about them, but decided to not spoil the evening. She gestured to her beautiful gown.

"We're all dressed up with nowhere to go."

"Nonsense," Draco replied. "We're going to a ball." He walked to the center of the room, right underneath the old chandelier.

"We can't leave Hogwarts," Ella protested. "They put that barrier up all around the school."

"Who said anything about leaving Hogwarts?" He flicked his wand at the pile of old musical instruments lying near the piano. The violin came to life, as did the old piano, plucking out a few notes; the violin tuned itself as Draco walked and opened the sheet music, setting it on the stand. Some of the torch lights dimmed and some glowed brighter, changing the whole atmosphere so much so that she barely recognized her makeshift dance studio.

Impressed, Ella smiled. "You figured out how to use it all," she said as the violin tuned itself.

"It wasn't hard," Draco said, arranging the music in a pile that was easy to turn. "My mother used to use a similar charm when I was first learning the organ."

"Ah, and here I was thinking I was special…"

"You're special and you know it. Now…" Draco turned and the piano swelled and came to life with a beautiful and familiar tune. Ella couldn't help but smile at its sound, her soul filling with a joy that was so ethereal it almost seemed unreal. Draco came to her and offered his hand. "May I have this dance?"

Rolling her eyes and smiling ear-to-ear, Ella shook her head in disbelief and put her hand in his. "Sure," she giggled. Draco smiled and lead her to the center of the dance floor. The music swelled and he took a step forward, and she took a step back, then to the side, one-two-three-one….one-two-three-one… Oh, he was such a spectacular dancer.

"Well?" Ella noticed that she'd closed her eyes as they were dancing, lost in her own little world. "Am I forgiven?" He spun her around and caught her back into the waltz, then lifted and the right times and caught her again in his lean yet strong arms. Ella couldn't help but laugh.

"You are well on your way," she said as he spun her again, her gown blooming in a perfect circle like a flower.

* * *

The clock struck midnight.

"Ella."

She wasn't certain if Draco was actually saying her name out loud or if she was just hearing it in her head. They were so close, tangled in each other's arms, dancing cheek to cheek slowly in the middle of the room. There she was, nestled in the crook of his neck, her left arm swung around his neck, her right hand clasped in his; Ella hadn't ever been so happy. _I'm going to use this memory to cast a Patronus,_ she thought to herself. She felt his breath on her ear.

"Ella, my darling."

"Hmm?" She mumbled into his pressed collar.

"It's after midnight."

"So?"

"So we should go back to the dormitory."

She closed any possible microscopic gap that there was between their bodies. "No," she whispered. "We should stay here and dance until dawn." She felt him laugh quietly through her chest. He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist in a hug and gently planted a kiss on her neck, which caused a rush of goosebumps all up and down her arms and legs. Draco brought his head up and kissed her ear.

"Are you having a good time, then?" he whispered into her hair.

"The best," she whispered back.

He pulled away a bit. "It's about to get better." Ella was smiling, but she frowned in question and shook her head.

"I don't know how much more I can take!" she sighed, dramatically raising her hand to her forehead. Draco laughed.

"Sit," he suggested, motioning to the piano bench.

"I don't want to wrinkle my dress," she protested. Draco paused, then smiled and nodded.

"Very well," he said, standing still and taking both of her hands in his. "I'll say it standing." Ella's heart leapt to her throat, and suddenly felt extremely sobered. Draco suddenly looked very serious, and he stared at her hands for a long time. Ella wanted to listen in on his thoughts, but quickly dismissed the notion as soon as it entered her head. _Be patient_ , she reminded herself. _He's been through a lot. Poor guy._ When he looked up with a pleading glance, scared and unsure, she took in a breath and gave a warm and reassuring smile.

"Take your time," she said. Draco smiled. _He needed to hear that_ ,she thought. He took a deep breath in and out. Ella squeezed his hands in reassurance. "It's only me," she soothed, which caused the young wizard to laugh in a spurt.

"'It's _only_ you'," he capered. "It's _only_ Ella goddamn Zamora."

Ella's eyes went wide; her jaw dropped with glee. "I've never heard you curse before!" she whispered excitedly. He smiled and leaned his forehead against hers, squeezing her hands tighter. She closed her eyes and felt his brow furrow against her own; Ella felt him, his insecurities and his fear, his true desire to let down those walls. _Poor thing_ , she thought briefly. _No, he doesn't want to be pitied. Just understood._ Draco's breath stifled, and she felt his hands go clammy.

"You…" he whispered, his breath hot against her lips. She wanted him to kiss her, but she waited a year for that…she could wait another five minutes for him to say what he needed to say. "You are…" He sighed, and she felt him smile, glow from within. "I have never felt anything like this before."

Ella smiled, right down to her toes. "As long as we're opening up…?" He pulled away and smiled at her; his face was so earnest, so genuinely ready to listen. "I am…" Ella gulped. "I have never been so happy and so terrified." His lips were smiling, but his brow was knitting in concern. "It's just… I don't know what's going to happen next, and tonight has just been so perfect that I'm terrified of what this next moment will bring. I'm scared of what you're going to say." His hands gripped hers tight, as if he was trying to will her fluttering heart to calm.

"I'm scared of what I'm going to say, too," he said.

"That's not comforting."

Draco smiled. "I suppose not, no." A beat. He closed his eyes, took in a breath, and opened them again. "I need you to listen." Ella nodded. "There are things happening in my life right now that I can't talk about, not to you, not to anyone. I need you to accept this before we go any further."

Ella frowned. "Why?"

Draco gulped. "The less you know the better," he answered. Though Ella frowned, she slowly nodded. "I've had lots of time to think about this. It's very difficult for me to say. I need to know that you'll be with me in the end." Ella wasn't sure to say, mostly because she wasn't sure what he was talking about. He took a step back, just enough to seriously look her in the eye. "Ella, I want to be with you once all of this is over. I want us to be together." She couldn't stay silent any longer.

"I don't understand. We're together now…how do you mean differently?" There was a silent struggle behind his gray eyes. "It's just…you're still my boyfriend, right?"

"Of course," he said.

"And I'm your girlfriend."

"Yes, of course," he agreed.

"So…? I don't understand what's complicating things here. We both consent to being together. Let's just be together."

A beat. "I'm afraid it isn't that simple. Not yet." His grip on her hands became tighter, almost uncomfortably so. "There are some very dangerous things going on right now, with me and with my family. I know you don't want to be involved and I know your grandmother doesn't want you anywhere near me." His voice cracked. Ella took her hands from his and put them both on his face.

"Go on," she soothed.

Draco smiled and took both of her hands from his cheeks, then kissed them each. He took his Slytherin ring off his index finger and gently slid it on the ring finger of her left hand. The ring was too big at first, but it seemed to slim itself down to snugly fit on her finger, likely from an enchantment of some sort.

"I intend," he began, gripping her hand tight, "to honor you and protect you as best I can, and when all of this is over, I intend to propose marriage. I fully intend to provide for you and give you everything that you could desire, to respect your wishes. I ask that you take this ring as a token of my love."

Ella's insides tensed; her heart began to pound so loud that she was certain the veins in her temples were pulsing. The room began to spin. _What the fuck, am I having a stroke?_ "Love," she croaked. Draco laughed.

"Yes. Love. I love you." Ella couldn't breathe.

"I—I, um…" She cleared her throat. Draco frowned. "I… I…" She pulled her hands away. "Listen, there's something you need to know about me." _Don't tell him. Don't fucking tell him about Neville_."I just…" Draco's facial expression showed that he was clearly growing both impatient and more hurt by the moment. "No, it's not that—listen. I…" She tried. She couldn't.

"Ella," Draco began, slowly. "I love you." _Stop saying that, you prick_! "I love you and I want you to be my wife when the War is over." _Oh my fucking God I am going to projectile vomit all over you—does nobody get that I'm not ready for this?!_ "So? Are you going to say anything back to me?"

A beat. "I love you, too," she said, too quickly to really get the taste of what she was saying on her tongue. "I really do. A lot." Draco smiled, glowed. "It's just…this is scary. Everything you are saying right now scares me. A lot. I'm afraid that you're in some kind of trouble and that something horrible is going to happen." He paused; Ella saw a glimpse of something in his eyes that vanished just as quickly as it came.

"Trust me?" he asked, grinning that grin.

The short answer, still, is 'no.' "Yes," she lied. He wrapped his arms around her, tight.

"Then trust that everything is in order." Ella couldn't. Something awful was about to happen, but she couldn't bring it out of him tonight. She let out a sigh. He was asking a lot; Ella wasn't ready, but by the time they graduated, maybe she would be.

"I'll wear the ring," she said, and Draco gripped her tighter, so tight that her reservations were squeezed away, if only for a moment. "Just…promise me you won't shut me out," she said, pulling away gently, his arms still wrapped around her waist. "Promise that when you need help from me, you'll ask for it. Deal?"

He smiled. "Deal." And he kissed her.

* * *

WOW! This chapter was different, with many scenes all in one go. It's nice and long, and we see hints of where things start, where things end...lots of hints going around. Oh, yeah, LOTS of hints...the plot is thickening, no?

Huge thanks to HeartofAspen for my faithful reviews that I truly enjoy, as always. Things are going to get messy soon, but we'll see why it makes sense later.


	11. Chapter 11

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Harry 15**

* * *

"Don't you think it's suspicious?" Hermione sort of whispered as they all sat. "The same year the Ministry of Magic begins to get involved at Hogwarts, an exchange student—a _single_ exchange student—from America shows up?" The feast table was full of the usual fare, but had jars of jams with names he didn't recognize—'mulberry, mayhaw'—and tarts of familiar-looking colors but off-smells, and some kind of yellow-white, gritty-looking porridge in a big bowl. Seamus was picking it up by the spoonful just to watch it fall in globs. "And then saying that 'the MACUSA hopes we'll be good friends?'" Ron, who hadn't seemed to have any reservations about the gritty porridge, had already taken himself a bowl-full and smashed some runny eggs into it. "Will you stop – eating – Ronald?!"

Ron shrugged over his porridge. "I don't know what this is, but it's _really_ good! Probably American stuff. Try it! It's full of cheese."

Hermione looked to Harry. "Didn't the Ministry of Magic contact the United States of America for possible aid in the Wizarding war last year, before the Triwizard Tournament?" Harry vaguely remembered there being something in the Daily Prophet about it, but he couldn't be certain. "What if the MACUSA is using the exchange program to spy?"

"'MACUSA?'" Harry repeated in question.

"Magical Congress of the United States of America!" Hermione shrieked in a low whisper. "Honestly!"

Ron suddenly looked up from his cheesey pudding. "Bloody Hell!" he whispered as globs of his breakfast fell from his spoon.

Harry turned he noticed that Zamora had entered the Great Hall, clad in Slytherin robes—but her shoes weren't the standard Hogwarts black, rather a sparkling green high-heeled shoe that looked like it was made of deep green jewels. A charm bracelet dangled around her wrist, sparkling with rubies and sapphires, and at her throat hung a silver locket. She was carrying a shoulder bag, too, seemingly comprised of a black satin and decorated with many pleats, almost like a jewelry box. It was rather thin and sort of resembled a briefcase, only with a very large diamond floral clasp to hold it together. Harry hated to admit it, but she really was extremely pretty. She was smiling and waving at everyone, holding her head high as she waltzed to where Malfoy was sitting with his group of cronies. When she flipped her hair, Harry caught glimpse of her diamond earrings. Parkinson had planted herself next to Malfoy and was looking, rather angry, up at her.

"She's wearing jewelry! And look at those shoes!" whispered Hermione. "There's no way anybody's going to allow that!"

Zabini quickly stood and offered the seat on the bench next to him, which Zamora took with a grin. Harry couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but everybody at the Slytherin table had shifted. It was as if she'd stolen the thunder of even Malfoy, who was listening intently and grinning at her, eyeing her up and down and watching as she gestured, flipped her hair.

"Pass the grits," was something he heard her say, as well as "Would you like some cranberry juice?" and "Who else has Potions this morning?"

"We _all_ have Potions this morning," Harry heard Pansy snap.

"That's bizarre," Zamora said. "Why are all of your classes so small?"

"Did you hear that?" Hermione whispered as Ron helped himself to a second helping of the cheesey porridge. "She's got Potions with us. Maybe we can see if she really is spying."

"Maybe," said Harry, watching as Zamora ran her fingers through her thick black hair, revealing the back of her pretty neck briefly. When he glanced back to his friends, he noticed that Hermione had gone rather red in the face. She quickly calmed, however, when Professor McGonagall came up to the Slytherin table.

"Good morning, Miss Zamora," greeted Professor McGonagall.

"Hello," she greeted pleasantly enough, then turning back to her fellow Slytherins, obviously with no clue as to what she was doing. McGonagall cleared her throat, which caused Zamora to look up.

"Stand, if you please," she said.

Zamora quirked an eyebrow, but swung her long leg over the bench and stood to her full height; she sort of tucked a curl behind her ear and gave one of her earrings a quick adjustment. McGonagall gave her a look-over and looked down her nose at the American Witch. "I see you've found your Slytherin robes," she began.

"It was easy enough, considering they were sitting on my bed waiting for me." Harry then noticed that the entire Gryffindor table had gone silent, their hearts in their throats. "To tell you the truth, I never wear this much black."

"You had family at Hogwarts before you. You are aware of this, of course?" Zamora nodded. McGonagall looked down at Zamora's sparkling green shoes. "You are Penelope Spelling's daughter, are you not?" Zamora nodded with a smile. Hermione whispered something, but Harry didn't catch it; actually he wasn't paying attention to Hermione, since he wanted to see what was going to happen next. "She was in Slytherin House, as were many Spellings before her. Regardless, I remember her rather well. She, too, had a rather loud taste in footwear, which you seem to have inherited."

Zamora looked down at her sparkling feet. "They were modeled after Dorothy Gale's ruby slippers; she was the famous Good Witch of Kansas." McGonagall gave her a look. "They used to be red, which matched my Ilvermorny robes, but I changed the color to green this morning to match my new Slytherin robes."

"And Ilvermorny has Houses as well?"

"Yes, Ilvermorny was modeled after Hogwarts, in that regard. There are four houses: Thunderbird, Pukwudgie, Wampus, and Horned Serpent. I'm a Thunderbird." A beat. "Am I allowed to wear my Ilvermorny robes here? Because Ilvermorny skirts have knife pleats there and I don't much care for the Hogwarts box pleat."

A beat. "Miss Zamora. While you are a student at Hogwarts, you will _dress_ as a student at Hogwarts, including the appropriate shoes—plain, black, and with _out_ a distractingly high heel." Zamora narrowed her eyes at Professor McGonagall. The Gryffindor table was holding its breath, as was the Slytherin table. Zamora seemed to sense that the school had noticed her, which caused her to slyly grin.

"I'll change them now."

"Oh, good. See that you do so." McGonagall held her head high and began to walk off. Zamora, however straightened up, and quickly did an impressively quick dance step, tapping hard in a rhythmic pattern, until her shoes began to sparkle and glow, then change in a flash to stylish black oxfords on the final **stomp** , which blended seamlessly with her black stockings. Hermione gasped, while Ron mumbled "bloody Hell" in shock. There were many sounds of awe and approval. A smug grin crept over Malfoy's face, so smug you'd think that he was the one who'd come up with the transfiguration. Zamora quirked an eyebrow and gave a very wry grin, looking more than satisfied with herself. McGonagall gave the chilling sort of smile that she gave when you knew she was about to rip into you.

"Miss Zamora," she began. "I'm sure that the American Wizarding Scholastic system would find your cheeky attitude rather endearing. However impressive your skills may be, I think you'll find that a little more _restraint_ and _respect_ is going to pull you much further along here."

"Oh," said Zamora. "So it's not so much about creating an environment to foster individuality and personal growth, but to keep everyone quiet and in line." Harry heard several gasps from students in varying houses. Seamus visibly stiffened while Neville almost fell off the bench. McGonagall looked as if the flesh was going to melt off her face. Malfoy looked to be a combination of both scared and impressed. "I mean no disrespect, of course. I'm just trying to understand the culture here, Professor."

"The culture," repeated Professor McGonagall, nodding with a very chilling grin. Professor Snape then appeared behind McGonagall. "Ah, Severus," said McGonagall. "Your student was just _demonstrating_ her apparent skills in Transfiguration." Silently, yet smiling, Zamora clicked her heels together thrice, and the shoes went from the black Oxfords back to the sparkling green heels. She then did a different dance move, which resulted in fine leather riding boots that went up her shapely calves in a cool dove gray. Snape's face didn't change.

"That'll do, Zamora—no need to show off your _entire_ wardrobe," quipped McGonagall. "Back to black, if you please." She did the tap dance move again, and the shoes went back to the black oxfords, which laced themselves neatly. "I must say, I look forward to having you in _my_ classroom, tomorrow's fourth period."

A beat. Zamora then smiled a very charming, disarming smile. "I can't wait." Zamora's tone was almost sickeningly honeyed. McGonagall left, and Zamora and Snape were standing in-between the long tables. Snape looked around at everyone, still watching.

"As you were!" he snapped, and the Hall resumed. Harry quickly spun back around; Hermione's eyes averted down to her breakfast, where it seems Ron's never left. "Mister Malfoy," Harry heard Snape say. "Now that you are…a Prefect for the House of Slytherin…I would consider it a personal favor should you choose to take Miss Zamora under your wing."

"I'd be delighted to, sir," came Malfoy's voice, sounding all too happy about it.

"You have… _all_ of your core classes together, I see?" Harry couldn't watch, but it sounded like a piece of parchment rustling, perhaps a class schedule. "You'll escort her everywhere for at least the first week of classes. Be sure Miss Zamora can survive in this proverbial forest of her electives in your absence."

"Of course, sir. I won't let her out of my sight, sir," said Malfoy. Ron and Harry exchanged a disgusted look at Malfoy's tone.

"Excellent. And you—" Harry noticed Snape turning to Zamora in the reflection of the cranberry juice pitcher "—you'll mind your manners while you're here. Do you understand?"

"Does minding my manners include not questioning anything?" asked Zamora, sounding innocent enough, with only a tinge of sarcasm. Snape gave her a very nasty look. "Alright! Geez! Sorry!" That was odd; the tone between them seemed almost familial. Harry noticed Hermione making a face, likely thinking the same thing.

History of Magic was their first class, and it was learning about the Giant Wars. Zamora somehow convinced Malfoy to sit in front, and she seemed more interested in playing with her earrings than taking notes. Harry also noticed that her quill wasn't a quill at all—but a rather fancy-looking fountain pen which matched her fancy-looking inkpot. It was likely that she was rich, which was why Malfoy seemed to show so much attention to her. At one point, Malfoy noticed Harry watching her, and then proceeded to drape his arm over her shoulders and give Harry a rather snide grin.

Arriving at Potions, Zamora found a seat at the station next to Malfoy, with Goyle, Crabbe, Zabini. Parkinson seemed to be shunned with the other Slytherin girls, who only watched jealously as all of the attention came to their new classmate. Even some of the Gryffindor students took notice of their new classmate, and Hermione was the one who watched closest of all.

"That bag!" whispered Hermione to Harry. "Look!"

Harry set his books and cauldron down and glanced over to Malfoy's table, where Zamora was shoulder-deep in her satin shoulder bag. A bit of an echo was heard from inside it, and out came a large, shimmering cauldron of polished copper, which Zamora set gently down on the table. She reached into her bag, which was apparently enchanted, to pull out a cast-iron cauldron stand.

"She's probably rich," Seamus whispered to Neville. "Lookit tha' fancy cauldron."

Neville turned around and saw her setting up her station diligently, just right at the time she happened to look up at him. Zamora smiled warmly and said "Hello," which caused Neville to go bright red and turn away. Malfoy snickered. She frowned, then shrugged it off and continued setting her station up. As she did, Professor Snape came to her side and picked up her cauldron and examined it.

"Copper, Miss Zamora?" said Snape; Malfoy tensed as he set up his own cauldron. "You do realize that your Hogwarts letter specified _pewter_ as your cauldron?"

"Does it really matter?" Zamora shrugged. "Copper brews better," she stated. Snape seemed rather annoyed.

"Is your insufferable self-assuredness going to be a routine?" growled Snape through gritted teeth.

Zamora blinked. "Apparently," she deadpanned. Harry noticed Neville looking at her again, this time smiling with a mixture of shock and admiration, his pale cheeks going bright red.

Snape gave her a look, but put her cauldron down and proceeded to the head of the classroom. The class descended into whispers about their new American classmate; Harry noticed Malfoy seeming impressed enough at her, but diligently setting up his own cauldron. As always, Professor Snape had written the recipe for that day's potion recipe on the board. They were brewing the Draught of Peace today.

"I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions…"

Snape went on about his lecture, reminding them about their OWLs and advancing to NEWT classes would only be allowed if they received an Outstanding that June. He then went on about the history of Draught of Peace, the inventor, etc. Hermione was taking notes, of course, as was Zamora, who had moved her stool with the _leviosa_ charm to the back of the room.

"Why aren't you sitting?" Goyle whispered to her at a point.

"I think better when I'm standing," Zamora whispered back. Harry wasn't trying to eavesdrop too much, especially since the potion's instructions were so complex. When brewing commenced, the students all buried their heads into their cauldrons. Harry had just completed his second addition of powdered moonstone when Zamora's voice caught his attention. Harry looked up.

"Psst! Gregory!" she whispered over her own cauldron to Goyle. "Turn your flame up. Yeah, like that. It should be boiling at this stage!"

Zamora's own cauldron was bubbling at full, high speed with a blue flame, and her potion's kit had seemingly come alive. She had thrown her robes off and had rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt to her elbows, showing off her slender wrists. Her hair was now pushed back with her headband, and on her pretty face was a look of concentration Harry had only seem the likes of on Hermione.

"Vincent, you might need more moonstone. No, just a pinch—" she said to Crabbe, who smiled and nodded as he did what she said. Zamora stirred her potion clockwise and anti-clockwise as she added the syrup of hellebore in a long, thin stream, and her potion's bubbles turned from powdery pink to shocking turquoise. "Draco, you're so talented!" she whispered, looking at Malfoy's cauldron.

Rolling his eyes, Harry turned back to his own work, not wanting it to burn. It wasn't long before a foul, odorous smell permeated the potion's classroom, as varying things went wrong in varying cauldrons all around.

"Bloody hell!" cursed Ron a few times, though Hermione—as usual—was doing just fine. When Harry added his final bit of powdered moonstone, his potion turned gray; as he stirred, waiting for it to simmer until it turned orange, he looked over to see that Zamora was putting on such a show that she was likely the reason they were all doing so poorly. Even Snape had taken notice of the show happening at Malfoy's table.

With Zamora's left hand, she lined up five identical glass phials with the tops off as she stirred with the right. She slowly brought the glass stirrer up and out of the liquid, still twirling it clockwise, then quickly twirling it anti-clockwise in mid-air, and slowly—while still stirring—turned the stirrer upside-down. Her left hand then went flat and turned upwards, as if holding a tray, and with her raised hand her potion came up from her cauldron in a great orange ball of floating brew. The entire classroom took notice as Zamora made a whistling sound with her full lips, and a jar of powdered porcupine quills came up and sprinkled itself on top, orbiting around like the rings of Saturn before joining into the orange liquid, which promptly turned snow white.

Zamora continued to twirl her glass stirrer in mid-air, as if it were her wand performing the leviosa charm. Harry noticed that her left hand had formed a fist, which then burst into an open hand, causing five equal glowing white orbs to form from the one big ball of potion. She brought her left hand slowly down, siphoning each of the spheres into the open flasks, twirling down like a tornado, not spilling a drop. She smiled, popped her stirrer into her now empty cauldron and shot her hand in the air.

"Evaluation, please!" she called, not realizing that Snape was directly behind her.

"Miss Zamora!"

"Eep!"

"You do realize," began Snape, who was looking down his hooked nose at her, "that your finished potion should be _turquoise_ , not white, and that—in this short amount of time—you haven't allowed it to simmer long enough for it to be successful? Are you going to be forever incapable of following instructions?"

"Not at all," she said with a very charming smile. "But by the time I called you over, you told me how wrong I was, and I finished this sentence, the carry-over heat from the potion—insulated by the glass phials—will have stirred _and_ cooked enough in its vessel to have turned the correct turquoise color…" Zamora's eyes wandered over to one of the Gryffindor tables. "…just in time for _his_ potion to flame up and catch his robes alight." She pointed to Finnigan, who had been staring. With the drop of a whole porcupine quill, the cauldron poofed in a brightly-colored blaze and caught the sleeve of his robes aflame. Snape growled as Seamus threw his robes down to the ground and stomped on them, then looked back at Zamora. He picked up one of the five phials, which was now a glimmering turquoise color, emitting a silvery vapor from the bottle's mouth. With a sniff, Snape tensed.

"And I suppose you _needed_ that rather ostentatious display in front of your new schoolmates?" Snape's tone was neutral enough, as he didn't seem annoyed nor impressed.

Zamora shrugged. "Draught of Peace doesn't necessarily _need_ aeration to be wholly successful, but it does make it much more stable in the end. Also, powdered porcupine quills tend to clump in humid environments—like this classroom—and therefore it's better to add them this way without the risk of clumping, which I'm guessing you knew since the board has "shake the powdered porcupine quills until ready" written. No clumping in a potion means that your result will be more consistent, that the brew will react more quickly to its additional ingredients, and you run less of a risk of adding too much of something on accident."

There was a tense silence as Harry quickly stirred his own potion, glancing at the clock to see if seven minutes had passed yet. Hermione didn't seem to be listening, but Ron's own cauldron had already gone to pot so he wasn't being shy about staring.

"Slytherin House..." Snape began. "Let it be known that your new classmate had just earned you… _fifteen_ points, for her knowledge and considerable skill…" The Slytherins in the room turned to each other and made sounds of agreement. "…and that the rest of you should like to make _friends_ with our new celebrity should any of you care to pass your OWL with an Acceptable." Just then, Snape smiled, and Neville nearly fainted at the sight of it. He set her phial down and turned on his heel to walk away.

"Professor," called Zamora. Snape looked over his shoulder at her. "Back at Ilvermorny, when a student finishes early, they're allowed to go around and help others. Can I do that here?" There was a tense moment, it seemed to everyone but Zamora, but Snape shrugged and simply walked back to his desk, glancing over the other cauldrons and making comments at the other student's work.

Harry wondered if Zamora was going to make it around to the Gryffindor table, but he doubted that she would, for she immediately went around to the other Slytherin tables, turning flames up or down, having them stir one way or another. At one point, she even glanced at Malfoy's cauldron and sickeningly smiled at him saying "Well _you_ don't need help…" She then ran over to where the Patil sisters were sitting, fussing over how Pavarti's brew was in need of an extra drop of hellebore syrup to counteract with the fact that she—apparently—had added too much unicorn horn. To Harry's surprise, Pavarti's potion turned acid green, and then simmered down to the correct shade of purple. Zamora finished the class by visiting Seamus and Neville's table, where she—at a point—took Neville's stirring hand and told him "don't be so nervous—potions can smell fear." Zamora didn't notice that Neville turned redder than his potion did, which still turned out wrong—but likely not _as_ wrong as it would have been had it not been for her help.

By the end of the class, Zamora had earned Slytherin an extra ten points for her help with the other students, and earned herself quite a few more friends in the process. Malfoy seemed conflicted with the fact that she was making friends with even the Gryffindors, but class ended before she'd made her way to where Harry was—which was bloody infuriating, too, for Snape had emptied out his cauldron and given him a zero for the day for simply forgetting to add the hellebore syrup. Hermione, though she, too, had brewed a perfect potion, was uncharacteristically quiet as they parted ways, for Harry and Ron were taking Divination and Hermione was taking Study of Ancient Runes that day.

"Oy, you think she's jealous?" Ron asked.

"Of what?" Harry replied.

"Zamora, of course," said Ron. "I'll bet she's feeling threatened or something. Poor kid hasn't stopped talking about her since she got here."

"I hadn't noticed," said Harry in a lightly sarcastic tone.

"I think she really thinks Zamora's a spy for America."

"It's possible, I guess," admitted Harry. "But I don't know why America would be spying on Hogwarts." When they arrived in the Divination's classroom, Malfoy and Zamora had already arrived, and Professor Trelawney had taken a sort of liking to the new American witch.

"My girl!" called Trelawney, fumbling towards Zamora, grasping out with her hands and landing them all over the young Slytherin's face and hair, causing Malfoy and the other Slytherin cronies to snicker. "I-I sense something great within you! You are a force! Your aura flickers, my dear—" Trelawney pulled Zamora in a rather awkward side-hug as she gestured out to—in her mind—the " _great beyond_ " but what was actually the dusty old ceiling. "—your inner eye! Your soul is overflowing with the Sight! More powerful than any which as crossed this classroom before! It is open! Speak forth, my dear! Speak!"

"You're going to get fired." Trelawney quickly released Zamora, who had an unreadable expression as she turned away and took a seat at the table closest to the window, where Malfoy and lot had settled in. Trelawney's hands shook, and some of the Gryffindors couldn't help but laugh a little at the display.

"Looks like Malfoy's replaced Parkinson," Harry commented as they sat at their tiny round table.

"Git," mumbled Ron. "They seem made for each other already."

"Maybe," said Harry, watching as Zamora fussed her hair back into place—though he wasn't sure which _place_ that was, considering it was a turret of black curls flowing freely—with Malfoy apparently apologizing for her rather rough run-in with the Divination instructor. He wondered for a moment if Trelawney was right about Zamora. The Professor seemed shaky, certainly, but truthfully no more so than usual.

Divination was an introduction to the syllabus, a review of last year, and some nonsense about dream journals. Their homework was to take some parchment and to record their dreams for the next week, where they'd review and interpret them. The day didn't get interesting again until Defense Against the Dark Arts with Dolores Umbridge.

The DADA classroom was abuzz, certainly, and Harry and Ron chose seats in the center-middle, where Hermione had taken her seat at the center-right. She turned around quickly when she(apparently) heard Zamora and Malfoy come in.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Zamora asked as Malfoy chose a seat in the back. He looked confused. "Don't you want to sit in the front?"

"Not particularly, no," said Malfoy, shrugging. "I doubt that pink powderpuff of a Professor is going to give a sufficient lesson."

"She's still from the Ministry, isn't she?" Zamora asked, now catching the attention of a few others. A beat. "Okay, well, _I'm_ going to sit in the front because I want to maintain my perfect grades, so..." She took a step towards the front of the classroom.

"So you _need_ to sit in the front for that?" Malfoy seemed to be poking fun at her, but none of the other Slytherins seemed to be laughing along.

"Yes," said Zamora, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, then tapping at the glimmering diamond stud that decorated it. "I'm a little hard of hearing. I can't make straight O's if I can't hear every last word, can I?" She didn't wait for Malfoy when she turned on her heel and walked right to the head of the classroom, between Hermione and Harry, between the Patel twins, and all the way to the left-front desk, in the seat right next to the window. Neville, who was seated in the same column by the window, suddenly stood and looked for a moment like he might run up and join her. Malfoy, however, slithered next to her and pulled himself in the seat beside her, followed by Crabbe and Goyle, and then Zabini and Nott, and before anybody knew it, the entire front of the classroom was taken-over by the fifth year Slytherins. Neville sat down slowly, a looking a little defeated. Harry snickered a little, then shrugged to himself at the thought of Neville having a crush on the Slytherin's new queen.

"I can't get over how small your classes are," said Zamora to Malfoy, the others all leaning in. "At Ilvermorny, we need at least ten instructors per subject. And you never get the same professor when you advance through your years. I had Professor Swanson for my fourth-year DADA class, and even though I was one of the very select few that got into it, I was still one out of about seventy-five."

"Seventy-five?" repeated Crabbe in confusion, who was sitting directly behind her.

"Yes," said Zamora, turning around in her chair to face him. "And that's _tiny_ for an Ilvermorny core class. Professor Swanson teaches the advanced classes for the fourth-year DADAs. I was _planning_ on taking Professor Thistle this year, but I'm honestly okay with being at Hogwarts with all of you..." She leaned in and lowered her voice to say "Professor Thistle tends to lisp a lot when talking about _thspellsth_." Some of them laughed. "I also noticed that you don't have E.G. classes here, either?"

"What's an E.G. class?" asked Theodore Nott, who was sitting in the center-front next to Zabini.

" **E** xceptionally **G** ifted," Zamora answered. "You have to be really special to get in. Maintain perfect Oustandings, participate in extracurricular activities, blah blah blah..."She then dismissively waved her hand. "But, hey, who am I to brag?" Harry heard a very distinct huff out of Hermione, who was already exhausted with the new transfer student.

"Good afternoon, children," came Umbridge's voice, carrying over the now full classroom. She flicked her wand at the chalkboard, and a perfectly cursive handwriting appeared as the chalk wrote. "Ordinary. Wizarding. Examination. O. W. L." She made her way to the head of the classroom. "More commonly known as **OWL** s." Her tone was annoyingly honeyed and her smile was so creepy. Though Harry couldn't see it, he was certain that Malfoy was rolling his eyes. "Study hard," she addressed, "and you _will_ be rewarded. Fail to do so, and the consequences may be _severe_." She shrugged her pink-clad shoulders when she said "severe", and she kept that unnerving smile as she locked eyes with as many of them as she could.

Professor Umbridge then flicked her wand, and a stack of new-looking textbooks floated between the desks, distributing themselves among the students. Arriving at Harry and Ron's desk was a textbook with a rather cartoonish illustration of two children in pointed hats holding the same book, which read 'Dark Arts Defense: Basics for Beginners.' Harry frowned as he flipped through the book, which seemed to be made for five-year-olds. The first step in avoiding conflict, according to this text, was running away...

"Your previous instruction in this subject has been _disturbingly_ uneven. But you'll be pleased to know, from now on, you'll be following a _carefully_ structured, Ministry-approved course in defensive magic. Yes?" Harry glanced up to see Hermione's fist shot in the air.

"There's nothing in here about using defensive spells?" she asked.

"Using spells? Ha ha!" Professor Umbridge gave a piquant sort of laugh, sharp to the ears. "Well I can't imagine why you'd _need_ to use spells in my classroom!" Her tone was rather flippant, and Hermione went silent, her jaw tightening.

"We're not going to use magic?" Ron asked.

"You'll be _learning_ about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way."

"Well, what use is that if we're going to be attacked? It won't _be_ risk-free," Harry demanded.

"Students will raise their _hands_ when they speak in my class," snapped Professor Umbridge. The room went silent until someone cleared their throat. Professor Umbridge turned, as did the rest of them, to see Zamora's hand raised at the level of her eye, her fingers waving gently. "Ah, yes, the _exchange_ student? Your name, dear?"

"Ella Zamora, ma'am. Excuse me, but do you mean to tell us that it is the opinion of the Ministry of Magic that there are no risks _outside_ the classroom?"

Umbridge visibly tensed, and Harry was certain he saw her left eye twitch. She then smiled, addressing the entire room. "It is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be sufficient to get you through your examinations, which - after all - is what _school_ is all about!"

"Excuse me, Professor Umbridge," Zamora interjected, "is it also the opinion of the Ministry that school is _not_ to prepare you for your life after you graduate?" Malfoy seemed a little more than horrified at all of the attention being drawn to the serpent's nest, and Harry was beginning to wonder if Zamora truly belonged in Slytherin at all, what with the fact that she was being just as loud as the Gryffindors.

Professor Umbridge then tilted her brows in concern and approached the front desk where Zamora was, adopting a thick, honeyed tone that was truly disgusting to hear. "Ah, yes, dear, I expected as much from you." She nodded pitifully. "With the story of how your mother, a brilliant, pureblooded witch, was _tragically_ slain by Scourers, it is no wonder you are paranoid about your safety - but let me be _quite_ clear when I say that you are in _no_ danger here."

Harry guessed that her tone was meant to be comforting, but the entire class's energy had shifted. Malfoy eyed Zamora up and down. He couldn't read his expression, but the other Slytherins seemed to be appalled by a Pureblood being slain.

"Ah, yes, none of you are aware of the _horrors_ happening across the pond," said Umbridge, now pacing in the front of the class. "Scourers. Yes, American Wizards and Witches face these monstrosities every day. They are fanatics, convinced that magic - your _precious_ gifts - are a stain on the world, only to be wiped clean forever." Sounds of shock and horror flitted all around the classroom. "Yes. Every day, innocent Wizards and Witches are hunted down simply for existing - but let me assure you, my dear - " she turned back to Zamora, who was looking rather tense " - nobody here is going to 'burn you at the stake.' Because, of course, you are _safe_ in this country. You are _all_ safe in this country. No Scourers. No nothing." Umbridge smiled and giggled again, as if she hadn't just announced one of the most horrific secrets of somebody's past in front of their entire class. Harry was outraged. "After all, who do you imagine would want to attack children, like yourselves?"

"Oh I don't know," said Harry in a mock-thoughtful tone. "Maybe Lord Voldemort?" Ron tensed, Hermione guffawed, and Neville fell out of his chair as fearful gasps echoed all around.

"Let me be quite plain: You have been told," began Umbridge as she walked between the rows and columns of desks, "that a certain Dark Wizard is at large again. This. Is. A. Lie."

"It's not a lie!" cried Harry. "I saw him! I _fought_ him!"

"Detention! Mr. Potter!" announced Umbridge, who stomped back to the front of the room.

"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord!"

"Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident!"

"It wasn't an accident - it was murder! Voldemort killed him! You must know this-!"

"ENOUGH!" Umbridge shrieked in a tone so high Harry wondered if the glass on the window panes had cracked. "Enough." She snorted through her powdered nose. Harry was shaking with rage. "See me after, Mr. Potter. My office."

When class was over, Harry made his way towards Umbridge's office, only to find Zamora, alone by an open window with a sparrow on her finger. She gracefully lifted her hand and the bird flitted away and turned to him. She smiled and gave a nod, then began walking to pass him, likely off to the Great Hall. Harry moved a little towards her, but then stopped in mid-step when he realized that he was unsure of what to say. Zamora stopped instead, and looked up at him as if he had asked her to. There was a tense pause between them, but Harry soon realized that they had more in common than many of his fellow classmates by virtue of murdered mothers alone. If Hermione was right about Zamora being a spy, Harry was right to befriend her.

"We haven't met," Harry began.

"Not formally, no," Zamora agreed.

Harry extended his hand. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

"Ella Zamora, pleased to meet you," she said, shaking his hand firmly with a friendly-enough grin. Harry felt tense, almost like ants were crawling up his legs. "You're wondering about my mother," she stated. Harry frowned, then gulped. "It's okay. She died a couple of years ago. It's not like it's necessarily _fresh_."

He shrugged. "My parents were murdered, too."

"By Voldemort?" Zamora asked. Harry nodded stiffly. "Do you remember them?" Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry to hear that." There was another tense moment. Harry guessed that he should be getting to detention, but if he was already in trouble then he may as well be in trouble for showing kindness to someone else who disliked Umbridge. "I don't think I care much for Professor Umbridge," Zamora commented.

"Join the club," quipped Harry, which made Zamora laugh.

"You'll see me at the first meeting with bells on." Harry laughed, suddenly, too.

"Er..." He gulped. "I'm sorry about your mother."

"Thanks."

"I, er, I hope you won't mind me asking, but..."

Zamora smiled. "You want to know about Scourers?" Harry's silence was enough of an answer. "They started some time in the 1600s, but nobody really knows of an exact date. See, there was no infrastructure for the European settlers, and the Native American wizarding community had thrived for centuries without wands or potion shops or anything else like that, so the Wizarding community in America back then was still ooky and unregulated... Anyway, the lack of formal government meant there were no laws, so these Scourer people formed. They were like this self-appointed Wizarding police with no laws to actually enforce... And power absolute is an excellent way to attract power-hungry garbage wizards to your cause." Harry couldn't help but smile; if History of Magic was taught by Zamora, he'd likely pay attention better. "Absolute power means corruption, absolutely, so...the Scourers really gained power during the Salem Witch Trials."

"Salem Witch Trials?" Somehow, it hadn't occurred to Harry that something he learned about in muggle primary school was an actual historical event in the magical community.

"Yep. The Puritan settlers hunted and tortured and burned witches and wizards in all sorts of horrific ways for, basically, existing. Most educated Witches and Wizards believe that a fair portion of them were just innocent No-Majs caught up in the hysteria, but it was still a pretty damn horrific thing for the magical community, with the death tolls cutting the European Wizarding community in America in half, at least. The point is that a fair portion of those Puritan judges were known Scourers, looking to settle scores with those they were feuding. Soon, Scourers were trafficking their fellow wizards to any No-Maj that'd pay to see a Witch hung. The corruption of the Scourers eventually got so great that the MACUSA formed out of need. They've since gone into hiding, since they've mostly been executed by the MACUSA, but still are a big threat. They began to despise the American government so much that they actively try to breed the magic out of themselves, _still_ teaching their descendants that magic is very real and should be exterminated... And they still find and torture and murder Wizards and Witches today to prove it. Like my mom."

Harry wasn't sure what to say. His skin felt uneasy and his tongue was sitting uncomfortably in his mouth.

"It's funny," Zamora said. "You never think something like that is going to happen to you until...it happens to you." She then smiled and shook her head. "Anyway, I don't mean to keep you from your detention."

Sighing, Harry said "I'm already in trouble. May as well go all the way." Zamora laughed. There was a pause. "I expect Malfoy's missing you anyway in the Great Hall?"

Zamora frowned. "Why do people here refer to others by only their last names?"

"Oh, er - " He stopped, realizing he didn't have an answer. "I really have no idea."

Zamora nodded with a grin. "Well, _Draco_ , went to the bathroom and I'm just waiting for him." A beat. "Are you guys friends?"

Harry sort of gave a laugh and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Er, not exactly."

"Potter!" They both turned to see Malfoy swaggering towards them. "Missing detention, aren't you?" He gestured to his silver prefect badge with a long pale finger. "I'm a Prefect now, y'know. Don't want to get on _my_ bad side as well." Harry felt his skin crawl with disgust.

"Don't blame Potter, Draco. I was just asking him where the library was." Zamora grinned. Malfoy paused. Harry didn't know what to say, but he certainly wasn't going to be the first to speak.

" _I'll_ take you to the library." Malfoy offered his arm, giving Potter a rather nasty look. "Right this way." Zamora smiled and circled her arm around his.

"Nice meeting you," she said as they walked away.

"Yeah," Harry said, watching her lean into Malfoy's shoulder. "You, too..." Harry truly began to wonder if Zamora was, indeed, a spy. Historically, Hermione was right about everything; why should this be any different?

* * *

HISTORY LESSON! Thanks for reading...now REVIEW!(And thank you, HeartofAspen, for faithfully doing so! And a big thank you to SabrinaJasmine for your kind words, as well!) Also, sorry for the multiple "updates." I wrote this in the middle of the night and noticed a few spelling/continuity errors, and gave a bit of a better ending to this particular chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 21**

* * *

London buzzed and hummed beneath her in a haze of blacks and grays. The day was rather dreary for this crisp March morning, which _should_ herald the first flowers of spring. The sky was muddled with gray, however, as was the skyline. This was Ella's first spring in London as a citizen.

Today was Thursday, March 22nd, 2001, and it was seven months exactly since she'd stepped off the boat from Brazil and onto English soil, where she was now a citizen. She'd missed quite a bit over those two years—the birth of Victoire, for one—but she had arrived just in time for Harry to propose to Ginny, whose wedding was in June, exactly one week before Draco's. The clock struck 8 from the wall.

She was convinced to set down roots here, in some way or another, especially after all she'd done to earn her citizenship. Her combination Coming Out Party/21st Birthday Party two weeks ago had been the highlight of all of Europe, and the pages of The Daily Prophet were still riddled with photos of her in the Lifestyle section. She was being interviewed by Witch Weekly, she was being interviewed on the radio…it was everything she had ever wanted. She was rich, famous, revered for her intellect and breakthrough potioneering skills… Everything was perfect. Wasn't it? Even smoking a cigar on the fire escape of Percy's flat felt perfect, in a way.

A puff of smoke rose in a ring, and Ella inhaled her cigar and blew out in short puffs, creating an eagle which flew through the ring's center. Her cigar was almost finished, and she'd be leaving for St. Mungo's soon. The trials on her latest invention were going well, and with every step she felt more purposeful. Thankfully, being an independent Potioneer left her plenty of time to babysit Victoire, who would be taking her first steps any day now. Wouldn't it be fabulous if Ella got to be the one to see her first steps before anyone else?

"Ella." She glanced over her shoulder to see Percy emerge from the bathroom dressed in his charcoal pinstriped suit, straightening his tie. "Bathroom's all yours, if you need it." Ella extinguished her cigar in the old flower pot on the fire escape and climbed back through the window.

"Great shirt," she mentioned, spritzing a squirt of her Appalachian Breeze Breath Spray in her mouth, shivering a bit at the icy tingle on her tongue.

Percy smiled down at the handsome purple broadcloth shirt beneath his suit jacket. "You do have excellent taste," he said.

Ella grinned and nodded pointedly to the table as she walked towards his tiny bathroom. "I made coffee and toast," she said. "You're out of eggs." She found her makeup bag in his tiny medicine cabinet and refreshed her cranberry red lipstick before joining him in the kitchenette.

"I don't see much point in having a steady supply of eggs when it's only me…" he mentioned, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Nodding, Ella grabbed herself a mug from his tiny cabinet in his tiny kitchenette. "True, but it's not _always_ only you." She poured herself a mug and stirred in some cream and sugar.

"Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about that—" She glanced up from her mug "—See, you're here a lot—"

"—You have a problem with that?"

"No, of course not!" Percy insisted. "In fact, I rather like it when you're here. Your company is so enjoyable. You're charming, elegant, intelligent, ambitious, exceedingly clever…" Ella sipped her coffee, nodding in agreement. Percy gulped and sipped from his mug. "I'd like it if you were here more."

"I'm here three, four times a week," argued Ella.

Percy nodded and gripped his mug in both hands. "But you never stay. In fact, it took me months to convince you to even stay the whole night."

Ella nodded and occupied herself with a piece of toast, smearing on some pumpkin butter. "All my clothes are at home," she said. "And my lab." She bit her toast. "And Phoebus."

"Phoebus is an owl," Percy insisted. "Owls can live anywhere."

"Phoebus is a very _particular_ owl, thank you very much," she insisted, her cheek tucked full of toast.

"Don't you think Phoebus would be more comfortable in the big city? He'd have much more room to stretch his wings, so many more interesting places to fly. I should think that he'd much prefer London to Cokeworth. It's certainly a shorter flight from St. Mungo's to my flat…" It was becoming increasingly clear that they were not talking about Phoebus. "I could clear out a drawer for you. In fact, I've gotten leave from my landlady to expand the flat to make _more_ than a drawer for you." Ella frowned and swallowed her toast. She dabbed her lips. "Move in with me," he said.

Ella blinked. "No."

Percy looked as if he'd been slapped. "At least think about it!" he insisted.

"Okay." Ella counted to three in her head, took another bite of toast, chewed, swallowed, and then said: "Still no."

"Why in the world not?" asked Percy. "Is it because we're not married?"

Nodding, Ella said "That's a factor, if only a minor one—the more major one being that everybody in my entire family still thinks I'm a virgin."

Percy got noticeably uncomfortable. "So?"

"So? So what would happen if "A mere two weeks after her Coming Out party, Socialite Ella Zamora moves in with Floo Network Authority Head Percy Weasley" is smeared _all_ over _—"_

"—You are _so_ much more than a socialite!"

" _I_ know that, but the  Witch Weekly isn't going to spin it that way, and neither is The Daily Prophet, for that matter..." Percy slumped his shoulders and looked rather defeated. "You know it's not smart."

"Since when has being _smart_ made anybody happy?" Ella heard something in his voice that made her think this particular comment was seated in a deeper issue.

"Happiness is conditional and fickle," she said, topping off her coffee from the pot. "I like dating you, Percy, I really do. But we've only been going out for—what, four, five months? I _just_ now came out—"

"'Coming out' is a sign of eligibility—"

"I know, I know—but I am just not ready to move in with anybody right now. Please don't rush me." A beat. "This isn't about Ginny, is it?" Percy's silence was enough of an answer. "Just because your baby sister is getting married before you are doesn't mean that you're any kind of failure." Percy frowned. "I get it. Bill's got a baby, Ginny's getting married this June. It's a lot. Your whole family is growing and moving on with their lives, and you feel left behind." Ella could also mention that Ron was thinking of proposing to Hermione soon, but that part seemed almost cruel. "I get it."

" _Do_ you get it?"

"Do _not_ be nasty to me!" Ella snapped. "We have not been dating long enough to even consider this, and how dare you pressure me!"

"Alright, alright—let's not argue," quelled Percy. "I don't mean to put on any pressure, but I just feel as if we've hit a plateau. I'm ready to take the next step."

Rolling her eyes, Ella snatched her pocketbook off the counter and stormed towards the bathroom, quickly stuffing her toothbrush and makeup bag inside. "Ella, please—" Ella was about to stomp out of his flat when a barn owl came swooping in through the open window. The owl circled the room and dropped an ivory envelope on the bed, perching itself on the nightstand. Percy gasped. "That's Gawain Robard's owl!" He quickly took a step towards it when the letter came to life and folded itself in the shape of a mouth to speak:

" _Miss Ella Zamora,_

 _You are hereby summoned to the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, in the Auror Office's, at once._

 _Thank you for your cooperation,  
Gawain Robard"_

The envelope fell to the bed, lifeless, and the owl flew away. Percy and Ella stared at each other, wide-eyed. He quickly snatched up his briefcase and buttoned his coat. "I'll go with you," he said. Ella could hardly move, and it was only by virtue of Percy's arm around hers that she stirred from her daze.

"I thought you couldn't apparate into the Ministry of Magic," she mentioned.

Smiling as best as he could manage, he said "Being the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation has its perks." And they disappeared.

Arriving at the Ministry of Magic was always something impressive. It wasn't nearly as impressive as arriving at the Magical Congress of the United States of America, of course, but impressive nonetheless. Percy placed his hand on the small of her back and led her towards the elevators, which promptly popped them on level two. The very second that the elevator doors opened, a gaggle of reporters opened their notepads and flashed cameras in Ella's face.

Out of instinct, Ella smiled and waved where Percy cursed them and demanded they move.

"This is Ministry business! You haven't the right to impede justice!"

Questions were shouted in a buzz, too many shouting at once to hear, and Aurors pushed through the crowd to escort Ella into the office. They were surely trying to do it in a rather brutish way, but Ella simply smiled. She used her wand against her throat and adopted the most charming starlet smile she could.

"Darlings, please!" she cooed. "I have somewhere to be!" A few of them laughed as the Aurors formed a tunnel of safe passage directly to the Auror Office, whose door quickly opened and slammed shut in the face of the reporters. Sighing in relief, Ella realized that both of the Aurors were gripping onto her arm on either side. "Is _that_ necessary?" she snapped, realizing that Percy was shut outside.

"It's alright," came a familiar, familial voice. Looking up, she saw Ron with a full five o' clock shadow(even though it had just struck 8 in the morning) and a file in his hand. Standing next to him was an older gentleman in a bowler hat with a mustache so thick she wondered if Dark Wizards would use it to catch fire should they need to make a quick escape from him. The Aurors released her and Ella walked towards them.

"Ella, this is Gawain Robard's, Head of the Auror's Office," said Ron. Ella took note of the cubicles, the other Aurors, the taupe walls, and the fact that the entire office had gone hushed at her presence.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, Miss Zamora. It's a pleasure to meet you in person," said the man in the bowler hat. "Your reputation precedes you."

"Indeed," said Ella with a curt nod. She turned to Ron. "What's going on here?" Her ginger-haired cousin looked to Robard in question, who in turn gestured to his left.

"My office, if you please," he said. Ella searched behind his brown eyes, and was immediately blocked, his mind closed. She turned to Ron. "No occlumency, madam," said Robard. "All will be explained in due time."

Mildly offended, Ella dug her heels into the carpet. "All will be explained _now_ —you have summoned me to the Ministry of Magic, as is your right, but the fact that I am now in the Auror's office means that I must be informed as to why. Otherwise, you have no legal right to hold me here and I may leave at my leisure."

Robard sighed through his nose. "This is a very serious matter, Miss Zamora—"

"—I wouldn't know, considering I've been kept in the dark about it—"

"—Sir," Ron interrupted, "Please, if I could just explain the situation to her?" There was a very tense moment. Ella took a step towards Ron and put her hand on his shoulder.

"I'll speak to my cousin, and _only_ my cousin, thank you very much." Robard's eyes shifted to Ron.

"Just ten minutes, sir," Ron insisted. The Head Auror finally nodded, and Ron put his arm around Ella's shoulders to escort her down the hall. They made quick left, and then a right, and through a door which—to Ella's surprise—the Auror office's kitchen. The light seemed rather foul in here, or perhaps it was just the tan walls and the white tile floor. There was a blue kettle that was whistling "Do The Hippogriff" on the cast iron burner. Ron opened the cupboard and turned to her.

"It's Earl gray that you prefer, innit?" Ella nodded. He took two bags from the box and set up two cups on saucers, and poured the kettle's contents in to let the tea steep. He nodded pointedly to the small table in the middle of the room; Ella hesitantly sat and crossed her ankles, folding her hands atop her pocketbook. "Four sugars?" he asked, holding up the sugar cube dish.

"That had better not be what I _think_ it is," warned Ella.

Ron gave a laugh. "Though it'd make it easier, I wouldn't presume to use your own invention against you. Seems inherently wrong, that…" He demonstrated the fact that he _wasn't_ using her patented Veritasucre—a powdered version of Veritaserum combined with sugar, pressed into cubes, perfect for slipping to the unsuspected—by tossing the cube up and catching it in his open mouth. Satisfied, Ella nodded and allowed Ron to drop in four cubes and stir to dissolve. "Explain to me again how we're cousins?" he asked.

"Your brother, Bill, married my cousin, Fleur," stated Ella with a tiny shrug.

"Right, but how exactly are _we_ related?" asked Ron, gesturing with the teaspoon.

Ella sort of laughed through her nose. The idea of being related to Ron Weasley was a bit odd, considering she was also sleeping with his brother…that, and the fact that they looked like polar opposites of each other. The only thing they had in common was the fact that they both had freckles and they were both reasonably tall.

"Well, let's see… Fleur's father's mother was none other than Danae Christophe, my grandmother Helene's sister. Danae married into the Delacour family, and is Fleur's paternal grandmother. Helene married into the Spelling family, had my mother, who then had me… So, since Fleur is my second cousin, that means you are, too, by marriage."

He brought her cup and saucer and sat down across from her, a puzzled look on his face. "So... You're my second cousin-in-law?"

"In so many words," Ella replied. There was a tiny pause before they both burst into a gentle laugh. "I guess it does sound sort of silly when you say it out loud." They smiled at each other. She noticed his shirt, which was a hand-me-down from Percy, to be slightly stained with sweat around the collar. Ron was stressed.

"How are you?" he then asked. Ella didn't feel any tension or hidden motives in his question, so she answered honestly.

"Present situation aside, I'm doing fairly well," she resolved. "Turns out I should thank Minister Shacklebolt for sending me to South America." Ron laughed a bit through his nose. "You look tired."

Ron nodded and rubbed the space between his eyes. "I've been up all night," he admitted. "Every case I tell myself 'this is the last one', but it all keeps on coming…" He sighed. "I'm retiring at the end of this case. This time for real. I'm done with dealings in Dark Wizards."

Ella nodded. "I can only imagine the toll this has taken on you," she said. Ron gulped his tea. "But you can't forget all the good you've done here. You guys have veritably revolutionized the way things are done in the Auror's office—only a fool could say otherwise."

"Well, I'm still leaving and that's that." He sounded resolute. Perhaps this was the subject of a fight between Hermione and himself?

"I don't blame you at all," said Ella. "Do you have career plans once you retire?"

"I was thinking…going to help George manage his joke shop." He smiled at the thought. "Figure I'd rather make people laugh than anything else. People can always use a laugh."

"Joy is a powerful weapon in dark times," said Ella, who only pretended to sip her tea, just in case there were any traces of Veritasucre inside. She licked her lips and found no trace of her invention at all on them, just some old sugar cubes from an old cupboard. "Take care of number one first and foremost." He smiled. Ella put her hand on his and squeezed. "What's going on?"

"Well," began Ron, sipping his tea. "There's no other way to say it, really… There's been a murder."

"Oh, Lord," Ella gasped. "Who?"

A beat. Ron gulped. "Lucius Malfoy. In his own home."

Something hit the pit of Ella's stomach and her heart leapt to her throat. Her hand went to her chest in shock; she wasn't sure what to say. "I…" She could barely form a thought. "How's Draco?" came spilling out of her mouth.

Ron sighed through his nose and he leaned back in his chair. "We've apprehended him at Gringott's. He was attempting to make a very large withdrawal. He's on his way in, now."

"'Apprehended?'" Ron didn't say anything, which caused the wheels in Ella's mind to turn. "You think he did it?"

"We don't know. I doubt it, but the fact of the matter is he was trying to leave the country."

She narrowed her eyes. "And you know that because?"

"He had a ticket to New York City in his pocket," said Ron. He seemed to be watching her for a response, which was fairly useless, considering Ella was more confused now than ever. "It was for this afternoon. He was taking a boat."

Ella frowned and narrowed her eyes in thought. "I don't understand," she simply stated.

Lucius Malfoy, murdered, in his own home; the very thought wasn't entirely foreign, as stranger things had happened. The man, though a Death Eater, was a historically awful one, and one that had switched sides at the last minute. The culprit could have been anyone, though likely a fellow Death Eater. Draco and his father were at odds, certainly, but Ella was certain that Draco didn't have the stomach to murder anyone, let alone his own father.

"Ella." Ron's voice snapped her out of her daze. He looked very serious. "I need to know where you were the evening of the 19th."

A sudden realization came over her as to why she was here. "You think I did it," she whispered, shocked.

"No—"

"Then _Harry_ thinks I did it," she snapped, feeling a little more than miffed.

"Harry thinks you can help," insisted Ron. "Please. I just need to know where you were."

"Why do you need to know where I was if you 'think I can help?'" demanded Ella, looking down her nose.

Ron looked over Ella's shoulder to make sure that nobody was coming. He peeked into the file and looked up at his cousin. Searching his eyes, she saw that he was about to break the law by showing her something she oughtn't to see. "It was done with poison, and it's a kind of poison we've never seen before." Ron slipped her the resident Potioneer's analysis. He hushed his voice to a low whisper. "I think they're barking to think you did it," he said. "But the fact of the matter is Malfoy was going to America, right after his father disinherited him—"

"—Disinherited?" repeated Ella in confusion. "Then who the hell—?" She shook her head. "Back up. Did Draco tell you this?"

"No," whispered Ron, gesturing for Ella to keep her voice down. "Mrs. Malfoy told us. The night he was found dead, there was a fight…and we think it's about you." There was a very tense pause. Ron glanced over to ensure that nobody else was coming. "Listen. It could be anyone. S'not like he was the most popular bloke in the world. Frankly, I'd like to shake the hand of whoever did it." Ella was internally shocked at Ron's callousness. "But whoever did it was smart: they set it up to be a suicide. We don't know if he was Imperiused or if he actually did himself in, but the fact is that it was done with a poison that nobody recognizes, and only hours after Malfoy Junior was kicked out of the manor for good."

Ella leaned back in the chair and pressed her palms together, the tips of her fingers touching her lips in thought. If today was the 22nd, the 19th was on a Monday evening. Saturday, the 17th, was the last time Ella had seen Draco, and his parents.

The evening of the 17th, Ella was attending Mrs. Zabini's party, where many a ministry official had been. Ella had invited Hermione as her date in hopes that dressing her up and proving that she could be more than the stuffy lawyer type would impress the Ministry officials attending enough to consider passing her S.P.E.W. bill into law—because, after all, that's sometimes how things are done. Ella had even let Hermione borrow one of her black gowns for the event where Ella went in dress slacks, a slim-fit black t-shirt, and pointed-toed ballet flats with a bangle here and there…she hadn't even put her hair up, simply let it wave down her back in its natural curls. Hermione was the one that needed to get the attention, of course, that evening, and _not_ Ella.

In addition to Ella, Mrs. Zabini, Blaise(of course), Hermione, and Draco, the known attendees were her father, Professor Slughorn, the Hollyhead Harpies' manager, a few Ministry secretaries, many of the officials working in the Department of Magical Law enforcement, Teddy Nott, Daphne, and—of course—Draco's fiancé, Astoria, and his parents, Lucius and Narcissa. There were surely a few house elves running around and likely the dates of all of those people—whom Ella didn't know all of—but that was it. Something happened between then and the following Monday to stress all of this into occurrence. But what?

Lucius Malfoy wasn't the most amiable Wizard in the world, to put it lightly, and, though he had experienced a great deal of turmoil during the War, he was still a powerful wizard that had still somehow snaked his way out of Azkaban once the war was over. Lucius Malfoy was a powerful wizard and he wouldn't be killed lightly. Ella closed her eyes and entered her mind.

The party was clamoring with music and dancing, a grand orchestra and floating candelabras. The Zabini estate's ballroom had high ceilings and everything she owned was in polished shades of gold and silver, opulent to the point of being gauche. In her memory, she had just entered the room, Hermione was on her left, dressed to the nines and beyond. Her gown was her beaded black with silver stripes of sequins and jewels in the tuile mermaid shape of the skirt, with a very dramatic dip in the back. Ella had styled her makeup and her hair, and she took her time to install just the right bits of jewelry on her ears and hands.

First came the introductions, and Ella circled around the room with Hermione on her arm to make sure she was introduced to everyone—and we do mean _everyone_ —quickly and politely, before hurriedly escorting her to the next guest. Then came the first dance, and she had all but dragged Hermione and Blaise together to lead the first one. Blaise reluctantly accepted, like the good friend he was, and twirled her Gryffindor friend all around the room. Ella watched to make sure everyone else was watching, and had her first whiskey of the night.

Her father was there, talking with Mrs. Zabini, and at a point between her second and third whiskey, the Malfoys arrived. Lucius and Narcissa came down the staircase first, dressed all in black, and then Astoria and Draco arrived. Astoria looked just lovely, in a floor-length gown with long gloves, her dark hair perfectly styled and her lips painted perfectly red. It was hard to imagine Daphne's little sister as the future Witch of Malfoy Manor, but that was neither here nor there.

"Ella." Annoyed, Ella opened her eyes. Ron was staring at her, his red brows tilted up. "Please tell me where you were on the night of the 19th."

Deciding to enter her mind palace at a later date, she puffed her bangs up off her forehead and sat up straight. "The 19th was a Monday." Ron nodded. "Let's see…" She shook her head in thought, trying to find the right door in her mind for Monday the 19th. _Be vague_ , she reminded herself. Her father was a lawyer, and one of the things he'd always told her was that _nobody_ remembered specifics of times, so to seem more realistic on alibis, one must be vague. "I work at St. Mungo's Hospital. I'm a Potioneer." She wasn't going to say what she was working on; it didn't matter, especially now that she knew the cause of Lucius's death… "I usually get there around nine in the morning."

"What else can you tell me?"

Ella shrugged. "I had eggs and toast for breakfast," she said.

Ron gave her a look. "What time did you go home?"

"I'm not sure," she initially answered. "It was dark, I can tell you that… Either late night or early morning… But I do know that it was passed midnight." Ella tried to enter her mind again. When did she see the clock? She had made a breakthrough in one of her projects and was working late into it. She was close to finding a cure, she could tell—she could _smell_ it. It was coming. She was going to be the Witch that went down in history for curing—

"Is there anybody who can tell us where you were?" Ron's voice interrupted her train of thought.

More than annoyed, Ella sighed through her nose. How was she ever going to give an answer if Ron didn't let her complete a thought? "The staff at St. Mungo's?" she snapped. "The people I work with every day?" She suddenly recalled the last time she saw a clock—it was the clock on Percy's nightstand at 3 a.m. "Wait…"

If she mentioned _that_ , it was going to go to scandal. High profile murder cases like this were all the rage for the press, and she was going to be smeared like paint if anybody knew she was sleeping around, with the Head of Magical Transportation, no less… "Wait." She then said. "The clock on the nightstand said 3 a.m. when I finally made it to bed." There. Vague. It was the truth, it was _just_ specific enough, but it didn't mention _which_ bed she was in.

Ron let out a huge sigh of relief and slunk back in his chair. "Good," he said. "That's good. I knew you didn't do it. I knew it. I knew you wouldn't waste your potions on that git."

"I should say not," agreed Ella, if only for the sake of getting Ron on her side—how she _actually_ felt about the whole thing was: dreadful. "I don't make poisons. I almost never have. I make _cures_. Always."

Ron's hand came over the top of hers. "I know. I tried to tell them."

"Who's 'them' if not Harry?"

Ron opened his mouth to speak when the door burst open, and a man of average height and a square form came bursting in, followed by a great deal of commotion.

"Daddy!" Ella gasped. "What are you—?"

"Get your coat, we're leaving—"

"—But I didn't have a coat—"

Robard and Harry were right on his heels, and he turned to them to snap "You summoned a Witch from her home and didn't even allow her time to get her coat?!" Ella's heart raced—he was in full Lawyer-mode and there was no stopping him.

Harry tried to wedge himself between Ella and her father; this was the first time she'd seen him in awhile and he was looking more than a little ragged. "Sir, you can't do this—she's part to our—"

"You know what, Mister Potter, I'll _tell_ you what you can't do—" began Daddy, his narrow eyes narrowing further as he wagged his finger "—you can't use an _Owl_ to summon a Witch to the Auror's office for _interrogation,_ nor can you do so without _telling her why_ , oh—and this is just _classic_ —you _really_ can't take her into custody without first informing her of her rights, which you would _know_ had you actually _graduated_ school—"

"—Mister Zamora! This is highly irregular—" shouted Robard.

"—Oh, so it's _highly irregular_ to have legal representation present when interrogation is taking place in a high-profile murder trial?" Daddy adopted the tone he tended to adopt when he was being mocking and scathing, sprinkling in a few chuckles along the way. "Oh, forgive me—I thought that Great Britain was an actual developed country with rights for its—" He pointed to Ella "— _citizens_ , especially ones that are _recognized, revolutionary Potioneers_ that have not only _fought_ for this God damn country, but travelled to the God damn jungles of Brazil for this country, and—oh, Ellie, what did you also do? Oh that's right I forgot—you're the citizen who developed a powdered fertilizer that, when mixed with dry, African clay-like soil, can cause the growth of _crops_ , that—how did The Daily Prophet put it?—Oh that's right: saved an _entire_ province of No-Majs that were on the brink of death from starvation with—sweetie, what did you call it? What was the powder? Maybe you've heard of it, Mister Robard's: it's called _Engorgi-grow_. Ever hear of it? No? Oh, here's one you might have heard of—another one of my client's inventions—it's called _Veritasucre_. Ever hear of that one? Or use it? Illegally? To interrogate Dark Wizards or former Death Eaters?"

Everyone was tense; Robard was shaking. Daddy smiled; God his teeth were huge. If Ella knew her father, she knew he'd already gotten enough leverage to get her out of there and smear absolutely _everyone_ in that office to Hell and back. She had to act carefully. Ella stood and clutched her pocketbook, then put her hand on her father's suited shoulder.

"Daddy—"

He brought his hand up. "—Let me do the talking."

"Sir, please, we understand—" began Harry, who was being uncharacteristically level-headed.

"Oh, _do_ you, Mister Potter? Do you understand how rules work? How laws work?" He then adopted that mocking chuckle again. "See, that's funny—you're a funny man, Mister Potter—I must've misunderstood when you said that you understand how this works when you have done absolute _zero_ to show anyone that you actually do understand how rules work." Daddy reached into his briefcase and pulled out an extraordinarily thick file, that floated in the air and flipped through the pages—it was all of Harry's cases. "Fascinating, you seem to be _quite_ rule-breaker, all the way back to age _eleven_ —" Ella gestured violently for Harry to stay quiet over her father's shoulder at Harry, who—thank God—caught sight of. "—Oh, yes, quite a _bit_ of disregard for the rules, and I must say that's _quite_ a bit of special treatment for _quite_ a bit of trouble…" He flipped through the files. "And your methods in catching Dark Wizards, enforcing law—rather irregular, wouldn't you agree? I've personally found—just this morning of looking through these cases—about _seventy-four_ instances of _clear violations_ of the by-laws about proper conduct when dealing with the catching, interrogation, and _engagement_ of Dark Wizards, _all_ before my morning coffee—I wonder what I could find when I'm properly caffeinated, Mister Potter?"

Over her father's shoulder, Ella flailed and waved at Harry to _keep – the – fuck – quiet_ no matter what, and it was a damn miracle that he did. Harry nodded and gestured out the door for them to leave. Daddy narrowed his eyes, again, and got close to Harry.

"You want my client's help, you go through me. Understand, Mister Potter?" Harry nodded. "Excellent." Daddy took Ella by the arm and power-strode out, while Ella turned and mouthed 'I am so sorry' to the Aurors in the kitchen. The door slammed behind her and they walked together through the office, out the door and into the main corridor, where the throng of reporters had been—oddly—cleared.

"Daddy, what are you doing here?" Ella demanded.

"I save my daughter from interrogation and I get "Daddy what are you doing here"?"

"Interrogati—I was just talking to Ron, and he was doing his best—"

"An undereducated Auror doing his best does not a solid case make," he said. Ella sighed through her nose, a little defeated. "You okay?" She nodded, smiling as best she could. "You know this is a murder case, don't you?" Ella nodded, feeling sick to her stomach. "So you know how serious this is." Ella nodded again. "Okay." He rubbed her back in a comforting way. "Here's what's going to happen: you'll come to my office, we'll get your statement to release to the press, we'll put together your alibi and case, and go from there."

Daddy, from what Ella understood, had put his career for Congress on hold when he learned that Hardman Red Feather was partnering with a firm in London, and decided to head up the merger himself. He had an office in West End, where the firm was. Ella thought he was going back to America—he'd apparently put _that_ on hold as well.

"And another thing—what the hell is this rumor I've heard about you?" Ella tensed. "The rumor that you're a No-Maj-born that we _adopted_?" Ella closed her eyes and sighed through her nose. "Ella, look at me—" She was so fucking tired of this; she opened her eyes and looked at her father, who was gesturing to her face. "Look at those eyes. Look at those lips. Look at those high, high cheekbones with the full cheeks. Look at that coloring of yours." A beat. "You're mine. Okay? You – are – mine."

Ella sighed through her lips, avoiding her father's gaze. She nodded silently.

"Who even spread this rumor?" Daddy already knew the answer, and was likely trying to get a gauge for how truthful Ella felt like being. For the sake of keeping things easy, Ella said:

"It was me. I said it. It was stupid rumor to freak out some horrible bigot when I was sixteen—and I frankly can't believe it's survived for five years."

Daddy frowned. There was a very long pause. "Sweetheart, what's going on with you lately, huh?" Ella shrugged. "Why are you being like this?" Ella said nothing. "You're dealing with a lot right now," he concluded, nodding to himself. "Okay, that settles it. I'm moving to London."

"What?!" Ella thrilled.

"Oh, so she speaks now—"

"—Daddy, _what_?! Why are you moving to London?!"

He frowned. "I don't know if you've noticed, but it has become increasingly clear that my daughter is in deep need of familial support, and I intend to give it to her—"

"—Daddy," Ella began, gesturing pointedly with her finger. "Do not – I repeat – do _not_ move to London."

"And why the hell don't you want me moving to London?"

"Because I'm twenty-one years old and I don't need my dad looking over my shoulder every ten minutes—!"

" _Au contraire_ , I think that is _exactly_ what you need right now—especially after everything you've been through—"

"—What are you _talking_ about?!"

"I don't know—" he adopted a mock-thoughtful tone "Maybe the war, the death of your Godfather, the war, living with your grandmother for two years straight, the _war_ , the dingy suburb of Dickensville you now live in, the _war,_ being forced into indentured servitude to earn your citizenship in Brazil, the goddamn _war,_ the fact that you spent a fair portion of your magical education being a goddamn—"

"—Okay I get it!" whispered Ella in horror. "Will you please—?"

"—Please what? Stop caring about my daughter? I am so, _so_ sorry that I've somehow _annoyed_ you with my fatherly love—"

"—Daddy, you can't just pick up and move to London. What about New York City? Congress? What about Sheila and the girls? They'll need you way more than I will. I am a self-sufficient woman and they aren't. Maybe you should focus on the girls that actually need their dad holding their hand…"

"Do not defer this conversation to be about your sisters—"

"—' _Step_ sisters.'"

"Ellie, the point is that _you_ need me right now. And don't say that you're fine, because you are _not_ fine—"

To Ella's horror, tears were welling in her eyes. "Do not—do _not_ –smother me right now— _GOD_ why is everyone trying to smother me—?!"

"Hey-hey-hey, come on—" He put his hand on her shoulder and took in a big, deep breath, signaling for her to do the same, which she begrudgingly did. "Ellie, come on—big breath in, big breath out. Good. Now, let's try… 'I feel…'?"

"'I feel,'" began Ella, gritting her teeth, infuriated at being treated like she was ten again. "Angry. I also feel confused, and therefore _more_ angry about the confusion. And I'm truthfully appalled by this entire thing. I mean, I only met the guy once or twice, but I don't think anybody really deserves to be murdered in their own home. As awful as he was, Lucius Malfoy was still a husband and a father..." Her voice cracked. She thought of her mother, of how she felt when she'd heard the news of her death. Draco loved his father so much; he was the God and the weight of his world. She could hear her own weeping from the echoes of her mind, for Lucius, for Narcissa, for Draco...no matter the hardship they may have caused her in the past.

Daddy wrinkled his nose in thought. "Do you think that you feel this way because of _who_ 's father it is?"

Ella's skin became rather prickly. "What does that mean?!" she whispered.

Daddy's eyes softened. "Ellie, if you _really_ are this angry all the time, then there is nobody but me to blame for it." Ella rolled her eyes. "Sweetheart, please; this is what daddies do. They ride in when their little girls need help, slay the dragon, and—weather permitting—we get a parade." Ella laughed a little. "Now, do you _really_ not want me to move to London?"

She sighed deeply. "I just don't want you to feel like you _have_ to move to London. I'm out of the house, now. I've got my own house and my own life and my own career…"

"And your own boyfriend that I'm still not allowed meeting…"

"Daddy!" whispered Ella, appalled.

"I just don't think you like him very much," he said with a shrug. "I personally think you're this close to breaking up."

A little hurt, Ella shifted uncomfortably. "How can you say that?"

"Easy: I breathe in through my lungs – like this – " he took in a big breath " – and I think a thing with my brain and use my lungs _and_ brain and push it out of my face, kind of like I'm doing now—"

"— _And_ the dad-jokes rear their ugly head—"

"—All I'm saying is that you were _begging_ me to fly that Malfoy kid over for Christmas when you were sixteen—"

"—Probably because I was _sixteen_ and stupid—"

"—And now I can't even get a name for this one."

Defeated, Ella puffed her bangs up off her forehead. "Fine. Percy."

A beat. "Percy," Daddy repeated. Ella nodded. He pursed his lips, opening his hand. "That's it? Just Percy? Like Merlin with the one name—?"

"— _Weasley_. Percy Weasley. Percy Ingatius Weasley. He's Ron's older brother, and Bill's _younger_ brother."

Daddy narrowed his eyes and sort of squished up his nose in a way that a rat might, which certainly didn't help since he had the biggest damn teeth in the world. "You made that up, didn't you? That name sounds so made up…"

"So 'Draco Malfoy' is somehow more realistic?"

"I'm just saying who names a kid 'Bill' and then in the same breath names another one 'Percy'?" Daddy's expression softened when he saw Ella's face. "Okay. So you like him. He likes you. He makes you happy?" Ella nodded. He was trying to get her to open up to him, now, by staying silent. Ella couldn't stand silences and had the compulsion to fill them at every breath. Truly, Daddy's silence was a sick form of psychological torment… Fortunately, he was feeling gracious, and broke the silence with: "Ellie, I know you're not alright. What can I do?"

Truthfully, Ella hadn't any idea what he could do. She was feeling uncharacteristically sluggish that morning and she could only guess that it was because of what Percy had asked her over the toast. She took in a deep breath through her nose and sighed out through her lips. She didn't know what she wanted next; she felt unstable and somehow afraid. Her attention was then brought to the sound of Percy's voice, and the sight of Draco being escorted in handcuffs by a pair of Aurors with Percy in tow. "Help him," came a voice, unfamiliar. Ella hadn't realized until there was a slight altercation between Percy and her father in the hallway that the voice had been her own.

Ella knew she should jump in, but was almost afraid to approach their argument, which was likely something she didn't ultimately need to hear anyway. Draco's eyes were red, his normally impeccable skin rather sallow. Ella felt a pang in her heart, sort of like the pressure of forcing something to crack or crush. Her palms went clammy and her toes curled in her green shoes. Draco looked so sick, so grief-stricken. He didn't kill his father, resolved Ella. Draco wasn't a killer; he wasn't guilty, he was in shock. Draco's pale eyes widened when he noticed that the lawyer freeing him from his handcuffs was Ella's father. He looked up and met Ella's gaze. She did her best to smile and nod, to send him a piece of what little courage she had within her heart; he broke away from the Aurors and rushed to her side. Ella was so paralyzed with the entire scene that she didn't notice his hand coming to brush her cheek until she felt his thumb wipe away a tear she'd unconsciously shed.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her lip trembling. "I'm so, so sorry." Draco nodded with a very weak smile. Her hand came up to grip his; they felt cold. "I'm sorry, Draco." He smiled; he took a gray handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. Ella gave a laugh and dabbed her eyes. "Oh, gracious, I'm a mess."

"Join the club," he croaked, grinning. His voice sounded so heartbreakingly different, so deep and rough. Was he okay? Had he been keeping up with his health? Seeing him like this was such a shocking change to the party the other night. And he was on his way to America? Ella's mind raced with a million questions, and she scarcely noticed Percy and her father fighting, much less what it was about. She didn't care.

"Draco, I..."

Something shifted within her. She got a whiff of a familiar, floral scent...a white violet? Everything went silent, except for the scrape of Draco's footstep toward her. His shadow fell over her face and she closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath as his lips pressed against hers. Her knees gave weigh and she felt herself melt into his lithe body; she dropped her pocketbook on the floor and curled her fingers through his silvery hair. His arms snaked around her waist and crushed her pleasingly against his frame. Ella felt electricity when she felt his tongue on her lips, which she eagerly parted to deepen their kiss. _I love you_ , she heard, somewhere. Maybe it was him...

" _Ahem_."

They quickly parted and looked to their respective lefts and rights. Daddy had his arms crossed with one hand over his lips in thought; Percy was looking more than a little flabbergasted. Looking over her shoulder, Ella realized that Harry, Ron, _and_ Robard were all staring open-mouthed at the scene. Ella's eyes went wide when she realized how this looked, and snatched her pocketbook off the floor and calmly walked to the floos. Nobody said a single word as she disappeared in a tornado of green flames, and before she knew it she was back in her home in Cokeworth.

Entering through the library, she set her pocketbook down, took her shoes off, and went upstairs. Phoebus was already asleep on his perch, which was right by her four-poster bed. Ella drew the blinds on her windows and decided to go back to sleep, hoping that she'd wake up and this would all be some sort of Firewhiskey-induced dream.

* * *

What a long chapter! What a LOT Of shit going down! And Draco and Ella were just flat-out MAKING OUT in the middle of the Ministry floor? Wth?!

So, yes, Lucius Malfoy's dead. Ding dong. More stuff is coming and we're about a third done with the story. Thanks to all that have been sticking it out with me! I'm so thrilled to have followers, especially HeartofAspen, my faithful reviewer! I really hope you guys enjoyed this crazy chapter, as I had a fun time writing it!

Oh, and for anyone that's curious about Ella's father, River...look up Louis Litt from Suits. He's essentially that guy.


	13. Chapter 13

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Hudson 50**

* * *

"That her, Chief?"

He looked across the courtyard. Ilvermorny hadn't changed; the damn place was a time capsule where every child was safe in this magical world. Hudson wondered if even the MACUSA would ever be as safe as Ilvermorny. He still remembered getting sorted like it was yesterday. That big old Wampus cat statue's eyes glowed so bright you'd think it was going to come and snatch you up.

A raven flew down from the tower and landed in the courtyard, just in time for it to turn into a round-faced little girl in cranberry red and navy blue, just like all of the others. Her hair was a damn bird's nest, crammed into a fat ponytail, and her bangs were swept in front of her face to cover her eyes. She sure was tall, much taller than last year. And look at that: ruby red slippers, too.

"Yeah. That's her," said Chief Hudson. "Stands out like a sore thumb, just like her Mama…"

"She's just a kid," said Matthews.

Hudson inwardly groaned; somebody raised this dumbass. "Considering we're at a _school,_ " he deadpanned.

"I'm just sayin', Chief, it don't seem right that we're doing this to a _kid_." Matthews bit into his reuben sandwich, a bit of sauerkraut falling onto his tie. "I mean, this could be _my_ kid someday, y'know? I guess I can't help but worry."

Hudson nodded in agreement, watching the throng of students come and go. The kid was walking with a purpose, that was for sure—she had the canter of a duelist, too. She quickly disappeared into the south door, likely down to the Dueling room. "Becoming a dad does that to you, Agent." Hudson had two girls of his own, already flown the nest and onto their own lives. Lily went off into government work in Montana, and Rose—of all things—was taking her sweet time travelling across this great nation on a damn road trip to find herself. He didn't understand it, but he could respect it.

"It's weird how time flies, ain't it, Chief? Feels like just yesterday we were all crammed into their house, eatin' red velvet cupcakes at her first birthday party…just weird. Last time I saw the kid, she was sitting in a high chair, covered in frosting."

"Well, 'fraid that's not true, Agent," said Hudson, standing. "Last time you saw Ella was at her Mama's funeral."

"Chief Hudson." A stately Witch with a streak of silver in her jet black hair came from the left. "It's been too long."

"Professor Fivehorses," he greeted, shaking her hand. "You haven't aged a day."

"You're sweet." She smiled. "Matthews. You haven't changed," she said, smiling at the stain of thousand island dressing on his white dress shirt. Matthews gave a laugh and threw the remainder his sandwich in a nearby waste bin. "How's Cheyenne?"

"She's great. Due any day now," said Matthews. "We're having a girl, y'know."

"Congratulations," she said. "What name will I be looking for in eleven years?"

Matthews sort of blushed. "Well," he said. "Seraphina. Seraphina Matthews. That's what we're naming her."

Hudson couldn't help but smile. "Good name, Agent," he said.

"Maybe we'll call her Pheeny for short," he said, nodding. Professor Fivehorses nodded as well with a grin.

The professor quirked an eyebrow and nodded pointedly at the place that their target had been. "She's ready, you know."

"Is she?" asked the Chief.

She nodded. "She is. She's dying to get out of here, I can tell. You can see it in her face. I doubt you'll have to convince her to get away from here, especially since her father remarried."

"I don't blame the poor kid," Matthews commented. "A wicked stepmother with two daughters? Classic tragedy, especially after her Mama's died."

"Her grades slip since Penelope's death?" asked Hudson.

The professor shook her head. "No. In fact, her scholastic record improved. She doubled her workload at school, joined more clubs…the she's a natural-born leader. Top of her class in Transifugartion, Potions, Charms…" She shook her head. "We'll be sad to see her go. Lots of people will be sad to see her go."

"She's got friends?" She laughed through her nose. "I take that as a yes?"

"She's popular," said the Professor. "You'd never know she was Zamora's. That boy was something else," she sighed. "To tell you the truth, I don't think I'd know she was Spelling's either. Neither of them were necessarily amiable people."

"What makes you say that?" asked Matthews.

Professor Fivehorses shrugged and looked over her students, a few meandering, a few walking purposefully to their next class. "When you mix a sociopathic narcissistic Wampus in with a histrionic Pukwudgie…" She then laughed through her nose. "We try not to be prejudiced here at Ilvermorny. It is the most democratic, open school in the world. We try very hard to approach our scholastic journeys with an open heart."

"That being said…?" asked the Chief.

"She's her father's daughter."

"Fuck," sighed the Chief. Professor Fivehorses gave him a look, but smiled and said nothing.

"'Force, no matter how concealed, begets resistance,'" she quoted. "Give her the freedom to choose. She will surprise you. Explain why you need her. She'll help, even if it is breaking the law to talk to her this way." Hudson looked at her; she smiled. "I'll send her your way." Professor Fivehorses patted him on the shoulder and crossed the courtyard.

Chief Hudson sighed, rubbing the space between his eyes. "River Zamora… Dammit, I hate that guy. I hate lawyers. Assholes. All of 'em. Hated him in school, hate him still today. He was such a goddamn prick… Now I gotta convince his goddamn daughter…" He sighed through his nose and started walking. Matthews followed, shuffling the dossiers in his hands.

"So you still think this is a good idea, Chief?" whispered Matthews. "I mean, going to a student first without the consent of the parent or guardian—"

"I never thought it was a good idea," said Hudson. "But a prophecy's a prophecy. Let's just hope there's enough of her dad in her to want to make it right."

"Her dad? I thought you hated that guy."

"I _do_ hate that guy, Agent. But it doesn't mean that devious sack of shit won't set everything on fire to keep everyone else warm."

"The hell's that mean, Chief?"

"It _means_ , Agent,that if Ella Zamora is _anything_ like her father then she will jump in, head-first, to set something right if she sees something that she deems as wrong. Let's just hope that she's got enough of her Mama in her that sees Death Eaters as wrong…"

"And set fire to everything else in the way? Proverbially, though, right, Chief?"

He sighed. "We'll see."

They fell silent as they climbed the stairs up Thunderbird tower. They found Professor Fivehorses's office and entered. The room was just as he remembered, almost frozen in time. "Damn," he sighed to himself. "Last time I was in here, I was serving detention in my fifth year. I transfigured Chip Raven into a tree frog."

"On accident?" Matthews asked.

"I didn't say that." They both laughed softly. "Let's see Ella's dossier again," he said. Matthews handed over a brown dossier. Chief Hudson paced and sat in one of the side armchairs, opening the file up. Pictures of Agent Spelling dotted the papers, as well as Ella's scholastic records, her birth certificate, and every other document about her…

"Ella Xanthippe Zamora. Age: 15. Date of birth: March 3, 1980. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Born two months prematurely at St. Mungo's Hospital, she had a birth weight of one and a half ounces."

"Ounce and a half?" gasped Matthews, undoubtedly nervous about the birth of his own baby.

"Special case, Agent. Zamora was an animagus in utero. Took her first breath as a human baby and the second the doctor had her in her hands…she changed before she could be weighed. Took a hell of a toll on the mother, too, transforming in the womb and all…I can only imagine the pain she must have felt."

There was an uncomfortable pause. "Agent Spelling was tough. Feminine, but tough. Like a diamond. Or beef jerky in a ballgown. Y'know? I barely even remember her being pregnant, to tell you the truth. She didn't get big at all, did she, Chief?"

"She didn't even know she was pregnant for the first couple of months," said Chief Hudson, flipping through the papers. "She just thought she contracted a parasite from one of those damn creatures she used to take care of."

"Huh." A beat. "I guess that can happen. Who's managing the sanctuary now?"

"The Kowalskis. They lived up the hill."

There was a pause. "Like… Kowalksi's Bakery?"

"The same family. They've got a relation to the Scamander's, y'know."

"Damn, I love Kowalski's. Best kolaches in the city. Best krullers. Best coffee. Dammit, that's great. Same family, eh? Great news. The Sanctuary's in good hands. Say, Chief, you think that the kid'll want to run the sanctuary when she's graduated?"

Chief Hudson shook his head, flipping through the pages. "Doubt it. The kid's got a knack for potions; and skirting around the rules. Hmph. Cited for no less than 30 incidents of wandless magic, all underaged, over her summers... Damn, she's lucky her father's a lawyer…"

Matthews had sat himself down by the window, looking out over the forests of Mount Greylock. "They still keep the wands at school over the summer break?"

"It's _supposed_ to prevent underaged magic," said the Chief. "It's about as effective as the No-Maj's prohibition on alcohol was supposed to prevent drinking." Matthews laughed. Chief Hudson smiled. "Didn't seem to prevent _this_ kid at all, not that we should be surprised." He held up a page in her school records. "She's got a Wolfe wand."

"Shikoba Wolfe?" gasped Matthews.

"Yep. Sycamore wood, Thunderbird tail feather, eight inches precisely."

"I wonder how many kids have Wolfe wands? Pretty rare to get one… I always wanted one, y'know. They say they're the best, super strong. I've got a Jonker, myself. Not that I'd trade it. I like my wand. Missouri Dogwood, Wampus cat hair…"

"Wampus cores are favored by duelists," he commented. "Her dad's got a Wampus cored wand." He noted her dueling records, her awards; did the damn kid sleep at all? "Look at this: she's won the Golden Cauldron every year since she was six," said Hudson.

"Potion-making competitions?" Chief Hudson nodded. "I always hated the idea of that. Don't seem right, forcing kids that young to compete… And Potions are dangerous, especially for a six-year-old..."

"The kid's a champion," said Chief Hudson, looking at a picture of an eight-year-old Ella holding a golden cauldron, complete with frizzy black hair and her two front teeth missing. "She likes winning. Like her dad." He found her class schedule. "Every single one of her classes are E.G."

"Think she's tryin' to prove herself?"

"Nah," sighed the Chief. "I think she's trying to distract herself."

Tension rose. "What makes you say that?"

Hudson shook his head and sighed through his nose. Now wasn't the time for this kind of conversation. "You're gonna have a little girl, soon. You'll find out." Matthews tensed. "Complex creatures, little girls… Real complex." Screw it; he can have a bit of advice… "You know the thing about little girls is…" He sighed through his nose. "Everyone from the day they're born will be telling her how to act, how not to act, how to dress or how not to dress… She's gonna be exhausted and you can do nothing to protect her from the world. Everyone's gonna say "you should" or "you shouldn't", everyone's gonna base everything about her on how she looks. It'll make you sick to your goddamn stomach when some little shithead says to her that she'll never have to worry in her life because she's pretty. Or worse, what if she's not. She's never gonna be valued if she's not. Ever." He sighed through his nose. "I don't mean to scare you, Agent. Having a little girl's a blessing. Seriously." Matthews smiled, nervously. "Maybe you'll wanna take a walk, Agent. I have a feeling this might get…sensitive."

"Aw, c'mon, Chief—I wanna see what Spelling's kid grew up to be."

As if on cue, the door swung open and Professor Fivehorses appeared. "Gentlemen, sorry to keep you waiting," she said. "Ella Zamora, these men would like a word with you. They've come all the way from the MACUSA, just to see you."

In came a tall girl, dressed in perfectly pressed Ilvermorny robes and – damn, look at that – ruby red slippers, just like the ones in the Museum. Her eyes were big and brown, just like her Mama's. She smiled and entered the room, walking straight up to Chief Hudson and offering her hand.

"Miss Ella Zamora, pleased to meet you." Hudson couldn't help but laugh and smile. He shook her hand.

"Jacob Hudson. Pleasure's all mine." Damn, she had a good grip for a kid. She looked over to Matthews and walked straight up to him. He bent at the waist, smiled at her and held out his hand for a shake.

"Hiya doin', cutie-pie?" he sang-songed. "The name's Clark, Clark Matthews. Sure is terrific to see you."

"My name is _Ella_ , thank you very much," she snapped with the kind of creepy, chilling grin that only little girls can give.

Unfazed, Matthews—though what possessed him to think this was a good idea—decided to continue. "Aw, c'mon Princess—let's see a smile outta ya—" And that's when it went to shit; Matthews decided to try and tickle the tummy of a 15-year-old-girl. Too fast to see, Zamora snatched his hand, flipped him over on his back like a damn sack of potatoes, and held Matthews in a leg-locked arm bar until he was screaming, just loud enough to cover up Hudson's hacking laughter.

"SAY MY NAME!" she shouted.

"ELLA! ELLA!" screeched Matthews, who was soon released. Zamora stood up, calmly brushed her skirt off, and sat in the big leather chair behind Professor Fivehorses's desk. She folded her hands on the desk top and waited with a grin. Professor Fivehorses smiled and looked to Hudson, completely poised.

"Have a nice chat," she said with a grin, closing the door behind her. Matthews shot up, quick to regain composure.

Hudson smiled and came over to the desk. He set the dossiers down and sat. "Matthews," he said, looking back. "Take a walk."

Matthews cleared his throat, brushing off his robes and trousers. "Yeah. Right." He hurriedly scurried out of the room and shut the door hard behind him.

Hudson turned back to Ella. "You'll have to forgive him. He doesn't have kids." He then noticed that the dossier was in her hands and open. She was looking through the pages, maintaining an oddly neutral expression. "Sleight of hand, eh?" She looked up through her eyebrows. "Rare skill for a Witch to have."

"You know a lot about my skills," she stated; there was definite tension in her voice.

"Well, let's see…" He leaned back in his chair. "Outside of school, you've taken ballet classes, krav maga, fencing, horseback riding… Lots of traditionally No-Maj activities."

She smiled.

"You've also doubled up on your Ilvermorny electives, I see. Thirsty for knowledge, hm?" She continued smiling and flipped through the pages of the dossier. She was keeping a straight face; most 15-year-old girls might have a bit of a freak-out if they'd found out they were being spied on by the government. "You also have a bit of a temper, I hear."

"'You hear', or you _saw_ when I flipped your partner over like a sack of potatoes when he called me 'Princess'?" she deadpanned. Hudson quirked a brow and snickered through his nose.

"Yeah, they said you were funny, too." He smiled at her.

"How old are your kids?" asked Ella, closing the dossier and leaning back in the chair.

"Twenty-five and nineteen," he said.

"They're girls." A pause. "I can hear it in your voice." She grinned. "You never spied on them like this, though." The tossed the dossier to him. "Or at least you never kept a paper trail, if you did."

Hudson leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. "What makes you say that?"

"If you did spy on them, you didn't want them to know. You're too smart for that." He grinned and nodded. Damn, this kid…

"You're pretty smart, too."

"Thank you, I am," said Ella, nodding. "But you know that. You've got my records. You know what I am and what I can do."

Hudson smiled and held up the dossier. "I have to say, Miss Zamora, you're a pretty impressive young lady. Champion Junior Potioneer, Captain of the Dueling Club since you were twelve, beating out classmates that were twice your size and older. Pretty good with languages, too, I hear. You took Parseltongue as an elective?" Ella tensed.

"I was curious," she said.

Hudson smiled. "I'm not here to arrest you," he said.

"I figured. Otherwise you'd have to, eventually, notify my father. And you hate my father."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Do I?"

"That's what you said, isn't it? Right as you were entering Thunderbird tower?" He frowned. "How do I know that? I'll tell you: I can talk to birds. And before you ask, no, there's no real 'bird language,' at least none that I'm aware of. I just…I can talk to birds. I've always been able to. My Mama figured it out when she heard me and Pancake talking."

Hudson frowned. "Did your Mama ever have a bird named Pancake?"

"No," said Ella. "But we had a herd of hippogriffs that we were rehabilitating from a circus that got shut down. Mama used to let me name the animals." She shrugged. "I was seven. Pancake got released back into the wild, back to Europe where she belongs. I heard she went off to England, and they renamed her Fleetwing." A beat. "Are you here to offer me a job? An internship? Maybe police work? Auror work?"

Damn, this kid was smart. Well, no use lying to her. Hudson nodded. "Something like that." He leaned forward. "What do you know about your Mama?"

"What a question…" she mentioned, shifting in her seat.

"You know she immigrated from England," began Hudson, which earned a nod of agreement from Ella. "What do you know about Hogwarts?"

"Other than the fact that the Triwizard Tournament is taking place there this year?" Ella searched his eyes; he felt a twinge in the back of his mind, a bit of occlumency, which shouldn't have come as a surprise considering who her mother was…but a 15-year-old witchling doing nonverbal magic, already? Damn. Agent Spelling wasn't kidding when she said her daughter was a prodigy, but that didn't mean he was about to let her in.

"You know, my cousin Fleur is the Beauxbatons champion. She's part Veela." Hudson nodded. "I'm not surprised she failed at the second task. She's always hated swimming. I don't think it was smart of her to use the bubblehead charm, though. I liked the Durmstrang wizard's idea, transfiguring yourself into an aquatic creature. It only makes sense, you know?" He smiled; she smiled. "You're not looking for history on the place, are you?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"I guess the better question would be," he said, "is: What did your Mama tell you about Hogwarts?"

Ella leaned forward, then leaned back again. She puffed her bangs up off her forehead, then adjusted her ponytail. She shook her head in thought, then shrugged. "She told me that the Spellings had been at Hogwarts for centuries," she began. "She said that she always regretted not graduating, if only because she disliked leaving things unfinished…" She twitched her nose in thought. "She told me about the ghosts, the Bloody Baron, who used to scare people for her… She told me about the Slytherin common room, the glowing green light that came from the lake, and the merpeople that lived there." She searched her mind for something relevant. "And she told me why they left." She must have seen something in Hudson's eyes, for she continued. "They were after my grandparents. The Death Eaters." Hudson motioned for her to continue. "They're bad people. Not necessarily like Scourers, but…still bad." A beat. "Did they want to kill them?"

"No," said Hudson. "They wanted them to join."

"And if they refused?"

"They would likely be killed," answered Hudson honestly.

"Like my Mama." Hudson tensed. He saw tears brimming in her eyes. She quickly swallowed them and smiled. "What's this have to do with me, now?"

He sighed. He sorted through his pile of dossiers and found the one he wanted. He handed it to her, which she reluctantly took. She slowly opened it and found profiles of students, teachers of interest, and fellow agents.

"Severus Snape," she said. "He's my Godfather."

"That's right," he said. He watched as she flipped through the pages, reading. She was a quick reader, like her father, rather focused, too. She didn't seem to be afraid of silence. She was also very calm under pressure. She hadn't reached for her wand once, which meant she knew she wasn't in any real danger, especially when she was sitting in the Head of Thunderbird House's office. The kid knew about power, about manipulation, psychology… Spelling was right about her; she was special.

"Sirius Black…" She listed off the names; she was on the section that talked about the Order of the Phoenix. "Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks…" Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were racing. "Dolores Umbridge?"

"There's plenty to learn about her," he said. "Keep going. We've got all day. In fact," he began, standing. "I'm gonna need a cup of coffee." He went to the coffee pot that Professor Fivehorses kept in her office and heated it up. "I'd offer you a cup, but I don't think you take any."

"I like it with cream and four sugars, please and thank you," she said without looking up. Hudson quirked an eyebrow in question.

"Your dad lets you drink coffee?"

"I feel like we're a little passed you caring about what my dad allows," she commented, continuing to read through the files. Hudson smiled and nodded, finding himself two mugs among the professor's things. He found a bag of dark-roasted beans and ground them in the grinder. Soon, the aroma of fantastic Columbian blend was wafting around the office. Hudson poured himself and his young companion a mug.

"Your Mama took lots of sugar, too," he commented, stirring the sugar and watching it dissolve. "But she preferred it black."

"Like her men?" He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. "Like you?" She looked up and met his eyes. Did a fifteen-tear-old girl just make a black joke _and_ a sex joke in one breath? "Were you sleeping with her?" Hudson couldn't help but feel the same ball-shrinking terror he felt when Rose was five and asked where babies came from. "I guess that's a 'no'." She looked back at the dossier. "Sorry," she said. "Just trying to piece some things together…"

He brought the mugs to the desk and set hers down in front of her, sipping his own. "You certainly aren't your average 15-year-old."

"I doubt you'd be talking to me if I _was_ average…" She stopped at a particular page. "Harry Potter?" she asked.

"Harry Potter."

"He's the wizard that defeated Voldemort. The second Hogwarts champion… He snatched the Golden Egg from the dragon on a broomstick."

"So you know about him."

"Who doesn't?" She went back to reading. "Ronald Weasley… Her- Herm—"

"Hermione."

"Hermione. Hermione Granger." She stopped and leaned back when she looked at the profile on her, obvious, British counterpart.

"She's going to be the hardest one to deal with; professional meddler, that one." Zamora glanced up through her eyebrows. He hoped that she'd catch what he was throwing. "No extracurricular activities, it seems, but damn if her grades aren't impressive..."

"Not as impressive as mine," she snapped. Hudson pursed his lips. She went back to reading. Damn, she was competitive. This might be easier than he thought, but it was still going to be a delicate situation. "Draco Malfoy." She paused and ran her fingers over his picture. "Malfoy…" She whispered to herself. "Where do I know that name?"

"We're _really_ going to need you to concentrate on him," he commented, sipping his coffee. "He is _pretty_ damn critical to this operation."

"So this _is_ a job offer," she said. She flipped back to the page that had Snape's information. "Severus Snape, Order of the Phoenix _and_ Death Eater?" Hudson nodded. "He's a double agent." Hudson could almost see the gears in her mind shifting. She snapped the dossier shut and leaned back in the chair. "I think it's time you told me why you're here."

He nodded. "I think you're right," he agreed. She tossed the dossier on the desk and took her coffee mug, sipping. "You're not afraid I'm going to drug you?"

"You wouldn't drug me," she said. "That's not your style."

"But it's yours, isn't it?" The knuckles on Zamora's hands went white from gripping the mug. "You're all about the truth, seeking it, not caring about what you have to do to get it…" He sipped from his mug; he heard her breathing stifle. "Children don't often understand the weight of their actions, do they?"

"Who the hell are you?!" whispered Ella through gritted teeth.

He smiled. "Chief Jacob Hudson, American Branch of the Order of the Phoenix and the AWIB, American Wizarding Investigation Bureau. I've been a Spider and an Auror for the MACUSA for more years than I care to say, and your mother, Penelope, was the best damn agent I've ever seen."

Ella's shoulders were tense, and he could see her hands shaking from how the coffee was dripping and splashing around in the mug. She set it down on the desk and leaned forward. "Then you and I _both_ know that Penelope is not my mother," she accused.

He set his mug down and gave her a very serious look. "You and I _both_ know that she _is_ your mother—she fed you, she clothed you, she raised you, she _loved_ you."

"But she didn't give birth to me, did she?"

Hudson tensed and shifted. "A-Actually, she did…"

"What?"

He got visibly uncomfortable. "Listen, kid, I'm gonna be honest: I think you're a good kid, and I like you." He pulled out another dossier. "And I'm gonna warn you right now: this just is flat-out gross." She frowned. "This is also classified information. It is only under extreme circumstances that we do _not_ destroy files like this. We've shredded most of the things about you, as per your mother's request in her will. She really didn't want you looking around for this, not even at the MACUSA…especially considering she learned that her own eight-year-old daughter would drug her with Veritaserum to learn the truth—"

"—I was just trying to figure out where babies came from!" she shrieked, standing in outrage. "I was just curious!" She paced. "I didn't know! I didn't know I was going to unveil _everything_ about myself!" She sobbed, turning away. "That my real mother was…going to abort me."

He sighed and set the dossier pile down on the desk. Against his better judgement, he put his arm around Ella. She didn't flip him over, she just crumbled into a pile of tears in his arms, cried for about five minutes, then blew her nose in his tie. He was slightly annoyed for a moment, but then shrugged; being the father to two girls, he'd dealt with this kind of thing before. Sometimes, when a little girl is crying, you just need to let her cry. She wiped her eyes and sat down.

"Okay," she said, her nose and eyes considerably redder. "Okay. I'm calm now." She nodded to reassure him, then smiled a big toothy grin. "See? All better." She sniffled, and wiped her nose on her wrist. In that momentmoment, he was truly reminded that she was, in fact, just a kid. Poor kid.

"You sure you wanna know?" he asked. Ella nodded. "Because once you know the truth, there's no going back."

"You're not going to Obliviate me?"

"Do you _want_ me to Obliviate you once this is all over? Because we do offer that option, if only for the protection of certain agents and Aurors..."

"But it'll answer my questions," she stated. "In exchange for…?" They locked eyes. "You need me for something, don't you? At Hogwarts?" Hudson said nothing. "If you show me the truth, if you tell me everything you know, then I'll do it. Whatever it is, I'll do it."

"You don't care 'whatever it is?'" he asked.

After a moment of thought, she shook her head. "I don't think you'd ask me to do something you didn't think I could handle."

"Damn," he said to himself. "You really are the brightest witch of your age." She smiled at that comment. He sat across from her again and picked up the dossier. "I want to make one thing clear: this stuff is _classified_. I mean it." She nodded. "Nobody can know about this, about you, about this study. Do you understand?" She nodded again. "And if I tell you everything, at least everything that _I_ know, you're going to do as we say. Do we have a deal?"

She paused and frowned in thought. She sighed through her nose and looked at the dossier. "How long will this thing take?" she asked.

"The assignment we've got for you?" She nodded. "One year."

"Will it take me away from school?"

"It'll take you away from Ilvermorny, for at least that amount of time."

"Do I have to tell my dad?"

"That's up to you."

"So this isn't exactly 'legal', is it?"

"The American government needs you. Your _country_ needs you. Do you think we have time to write a bill and pass a law into effect that states we can 'recruit' underaged Witches and Wizards for dangerous overseas intelligence operations? Do you think that'd pass in Congress?"

She took a moment to digest it all. "You have a loophole," she said. Damn.

"Snape." Hudson motioned to the dossier in front of her. "When you were baptized, your Mama was still working for us, same as he was. She made him your legal guardian. Severus Snape has consented to allow your involvement in this operation, _as_ your legal guardian."

"Which somehow takes legal precedence above my father?"

"Internationally, it would."

"This is time-sensitive." He nodded. "And I can continue my life as normal once it's over?" He nodded again. "But…it's only information I'm gathering. I'm not…fighting anyone?"

"Specifically, we just need you to do what you seem to do best: listen and learn. You'll only be at Hogwarts. We won't send you into London. We won't send you in a situation that Snape can't bail you out of immediately. You're gonna be under his care, entirely, as well as the other members of the Order of the Phoenix in England. The only ones that will know will be Snape and the other Aurors. Nobody else is going to tell."

"At Hogwarts..." You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. But damn if this kid wasn't calm in a dangerous situation; if she did well, he'd offer her a job when she was no longer underage. "I'm just gathering intelligence. That's all." He nodded. "What's the catch?"

"No catch." She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "We need someone to go where a teacher can't. We need someone to go into the snake's den. We need a student to befriend this Malfoy kid and learn about the inner operations of the Death Eaters."

She opened to the page about Draco Malfoy and studied it. "He's a Death Eater?"

"His father is, but he's not, no." Hudson shook his head. "Not yet, at least…"

Ella gave a tiny laugh. "So…I'm a Honeypot?"

Hudson laughed. "Now where did you hear a word like that?"

She smiled. "I watch a lot of spy movies."

"In theaters?" She nodded. "You do know that your Mama was killed by Scourers, right?" She nodded. "You know that going around in No-Maj NYC is extremely dangerous for a young witch, don't you?"

She shrugged. "I like the movies. It gives me a peek into their lives, into No-Maj culture… It helps me blend in." A beat. "Maybe if my Mama had been more involved in their culture, she wouldn't have been found out…" Her voice cracked. "Ugh. Sorry. Not gonna cry again. Nope." She smiled. "Anyway, I'm to 'befriend' Draco Malfoy?"

"You're taking the case, then?"

"I just want to know the terms of the contract before I sign. I'm sure that this is an acceptable request."

"Damn, you are your father's daughter…"

"But I'm not."

Hudson sighed through his nose, frowning. He waved the dossier in his hand. "You want this or not?" She nodded. "Good. So listen." She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk. "We need someone, someone like you, to attend Hogwarts as a student, wearing these—" he pulled a tiny black box out and opened it to reveal a large pair of princess cut diamond earrings "—all throughout the school year."

"Are those—?"

"—Your Mama's? As a matter of fact, they are." He pushed the box towards her. "When you put these on, we'll hear _everything_ you hear, all on hidden radio transmission. We need information from and about two people: Dolores Umbridge and Draco Malfoy. We need you to earn the respect and admiration of the latter for him to open up and tell you everything, and enough annoyance of the former to get her watching you at every second. I hear you have a special penchant for annoying the piss out of certain teachers you don't like." She gave a laugh. "You need to get into her office, plant a bug, and get out, however you can. I don't care if you annoy her or befriend her. Just make sure that Draco Malfoy likes you." They exchanged a look. "If you do this successfully, you will be a hero." She frowned at the word 'hero.' "Well, you'll be _helping_ your country a great deal. Is that better?" She nodded with a grin. "So? You ready to serve your country?"

There was a very long pause. Hudson didn't blame the kid at all for weighing the options. This was quite a lot to take in, especially for someone so young. The fact of the matter was that the Wizarding World was on the brink of war. If the MACUSA aided in the prevention of the second ascension of the Dark Lord Voldemort, then the British Ministry of Magic would lend aid in exterminating Scourers once and for all. If Albus Dumbledore was good on his word, then this could finally be the key to ending this scourge on the Wizarding World, once and for all...and Helene would finally have some satisfaction, herself.

Ella reached for the box. "If I put these on, you'll tell me everything?"

"I'll tell you everything, and I do mean _everything_ , once you complete your mission—"

"—No. You'll tell me now." A beat. "Now or never. Tell me everything now and I promise I'll do this mission. And I won't tell my dad. Or anyone. Ever. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

Hudson searched her eyes. They'd done their research on the kid, and frankly Penelope wouldn't ever shut up about her…as twisted as this little girl's mind was, and as devious as it was capable of being, Hudson knew: she was telling the truth. He slid the dossier forward and waited. She took it in her hand and closed her eyes.

"Okay," she whispered, and opened it. Hudson wondered if she would even know what it was she was looking at when she read through the file, but he was ready to answer as many questions as he could. For the first time, she was being more than a little expressive as she read. Finally, she looked up. "It's…a fertility study?"

Cringing, Hudson shifted in his chair and crossed and uncrossed his legs. He then nodded. "Have you ever heard of in vitro fertilization?" She nodded. "From the movies?" She smiled and nodded. "We have our own version. Sometimes, fertility potions just—for whatever reason—don't work. Sometimes, when an infertile witch wants to conceive, she has to go for a magical version of in vitro fertilization, in which we take a—ahem—fertilized egg and plant it inside the witch's uterus. It's a very delicate process. In the late 70s, we had a _lot_ of trial and error, all done with your Mama heading it up." Ella frowned.

"I thought you said my Mama was an agent?"

"Yes, but she wasn't always a _field_ agent. See, your Mama really was a Healer at St. Mungo's, as well as a Potioneer. The only thing was, she was also working for us… Are you following so far?" Ella nodded. "Now, what do you know about Scourers?" She tensed and grew visibly uncomfortable.

"I only know what they taught us in History…"

"All you need to know, kid," he said, "for the sake of this conversation, is that Scourers think that magical people are a stain on the world. They used to be Wizards, did you know that?" She nodded. "So you know about the history of the MACUSA?" She nodded. "Why we started?" She nodded again. "Good. Smart kid."

"Duh."

He laughed. "Alright. So, back in the late 60s, we found a way to _detect_ magic in utero. This was especially useful for finding No-Maj-born witches and wizards and adding them to the directory, so that way we could keep a track on them later in life. It's for the good of the people that we do that. I'm sure you understand why." She nodded. "Good. Now can you guess why this would have anything to do with you?"

Ella licked her lips. "My biological parents were Scourers?" Hudson nodded. "And they were going to abort me because…?"

"Well, not just because you're a Witch, but because you're an Animagus. You were changing in utero, did you know that?" She cringed. "You're the latest in _concrete_ evidence that we can detect Animagi _pre-birth_ , which means we can tell, that much sooner, that Animagi and Metamorphagi traits are present."

She laughed, obviously a little uncomfortable. "I guess that makes me special," she joked.

"You are _very_ special. Your Mama would want me to tell you that. She'd also want me to tell you that you're a miracle. In medical terms…you technically are." Ella couldn't help but smile.

"So…" Ella began. "Scourers conceived me. The MACUSA found out about me. And….they 'transferred' me, in fetus form, to…my Mama? Penelope?"

There was a pause. There was a _lot_ missing from that story, and there were a _lot_ of gross and messy details in that which, frankly, Hudson couldn't _wait_ to forget, but… "Yeah, that's pretty much it." A pause.

"Okay, questions—"

"—I'm gonna warn you that I'm not a Healer, so I don't _exactly_ know, but I'm gonna do my best to answer them—"

"—Who else knows about this?"

"Now that your Mama's dead? And the other agents and Healers that were _on_ this kind of thing have been Obliviated? Just me. And now you."

"So my dad doesn't know?"

"Of course not," said Hudson, shaking his head. "Your Mama _carried_ you, in her body. She gave _birth_ to you. Your dad rubbed her feet when they got swollen. Your dad listened to your heartbeat. Your Mama had a baby shower, for God's sake. My wife and I bought your cradle for your Mama. They went to all the classes, read all the books… Your Mama even wrote a few books about magical pregnancies—never published, of course, but she's got recipes and little anecdotes and whatnot all up in your attic somewhere. I even asked her why she was doing it, and she said it was in case _you_ needed to read it, someday." Ella frowned. "You weren't the easiest baby, you know."

"But my parents said I was an angel," she protested.

"Yyyyeah, that was a lie. You were a goddamn nightmare." Ella looked upset and rubbed her hands together. "Don't get me wrong, though. Your dad loved it."

"He loved me being a nightmare?"

"Oh, yeah. Detail-oriented masochistic psychopath he is? He loved every damn minute of it. He even monitored the temperatures of your Mama's breast milk for 'optimal feeding temperature.' Weirdo."

"I'm sorry—" At this point, Ella was visibly grossed-out "—did my dad tell you this?"

"Actually your _Mama_ told me this. She personally thought it was psychotic and needed somebody to vent to."

"Well, I don't blame her because it _is_ psychotic."

Hudson laughed heartily and sipped his coffee. "Do you have any other questions for me?"

She shook off any heebie jeebies she had. "Well," she began, "how did you find out that they were Scourers? I mean, I don't think they'd be at St. Mungo's getting a…what do you call it, alter-sound?"

" _Ultra_ sound _,_ " said Hudson. "And, no. Here's where some more about your Mama comes in." He picked up another dossier and handed it to Ella. She opened it and smiled. "Your Mama was a genuine Seer, the real deal. She had The Sight. That's actually how she started working for the MACUSA. She came busting in our door at age 17 with a damn bloody nose, jabbering on about something we needed to hear." Ella frowned. "She had invented a potion—it's there, on page 13—that was designed to enhance a Seer's abilities and call it to action on command. Unfortunately, it _can_ cause brain hemorrhaging...which she found out a little too late. She tried getting it to go to medical trials, but it was foreseen as too dangerous. It never made it."

"So…" Ella looked up at Hudson. "My Mama saw a prophecy? Of me? Of how I was born and how…?" Hudson nodded. "Everything? Did she know she was going to die?" Hudson nodded again, albeit hesitantly. "Then why didn't she do anything to prevent it?!"

"Ella," Hudson said calmly, "Your Mama was a very special lady. She knew enough about fate and time and seeing the future to know that you should _not_ screw with it, not ever. A single grain of rice can tip the scale. One tiny decision can ruin everything, for better or for worse, and sometimes catastrophically worse. The point is you can't fight fate. Ever."

"If you see something horrible and you think the ending is fixed already, you might as well be saying that you think that it's okay—and that's not right!"

"And if it's not right, you've got to put it right. Right?" She tensed. "Look. I understand that you're upset about all of this. It's a _lot_ to take in. And you know what? It's not fair. But you also have to understand that being a Seer sometimes means telling it how it is. Your Mama knew she was going to die, but she was _shown_ the visions of you, of you being her daughter, of finding you—and us—the way she did because _you_ were meant to be born, in spite of _every single force of nature_ being stacked against you." There was a very long pause. The kid shifted, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again in thought. "You were going to be aborted at 8 weeks because your Scourer clan parents decided that you were the goddamn Devil, and your Mama swooped in at the last minute and made it so that _you lived_. I don't know how to tell you this, but you really _are_ the definition of a miracle. That's a big fate for a kid like you to rise up and meet. The fact of the matter is that you have a destiny to fulfill."

"So…" she began. "Everything really _does_ happen for a reason?"

"Yeah," said Hudson plainly. "Everything really _does_ happen for a reason."

"Whoa…"

"'Whoa,' indeed." He nodded. "Come one. You've got more questions. I can see it in your eyes. Let's get it all out there."

She thought for a long time. "So…they found out about my Animagi qualities at 8 weeks." Hudson nodded. "And my Mama…what, snuck in to that hospital?"

"She impersonated a No-Maj doctor using Polyjuice. She watched your No-Maj mother for a long time like that. From what I understand, it was quite the scene. Scourers are dangerous people; they also hold grudges." A beat. "When she decided to abort you, your Mama put her under anesthesia and did the spell to transfer you into her body. It worked."

"Obviously," said Ella. "So, how long did my Mama carry me?"

"Well, let's do the math. Eight weeks is how long?"

"Two months."

"Right, and when were you born?"

"March 3rd, but I was two months premature."

"So that means…?"

"So that means…Mama carried me for five months." Hudson nodded. "And I was kept alive…because of her. I fed off her. I grew off her." Ella smiled. "She gave birth to me. We share blood. Right?"

"Actually, yes, you do," said Hudson. "So, she's 95% your mother, biological and adoptive."

"But why would Mama say that I was adopted? Why would she say the stuff she did when I drugged her with the Veritaserum?"

"It's kind of a long story. See, _technically_ , the law is a bit fuzzy on this kind of stuff. Since she didn't _conceive_ you, but birthed you, she's…kind of a surrogate. And because a surrogate isn't the birth mother but not the biological mother… You're… _kind_ of sort of adopted? But…for all intents and purposes, you're not. To tell you the truth, I think your Mama just said that because Veritaserum has effects on your conscience. She told me that it was because she just felt so guilty for not telling you all these years." A beat. "Do you understand?"

Frowning and smiling all at once, Ella nodded. "Yeah… Yeah, I think I do." She sighed. "Phew. Wow. I just…it's kind of like a weight has been lifted. I mean, it's still a lot to take in, but… Mama is still...Mama, and my dad is still my dad. Right?"

Hudson smiled wide, nodding. "Right. Now turn to page 82." Ella opened the dossier to find a picture of her grandmother. "Helene Christophe, your grandmother. You know that fancy jewelry box she keeps on her mantle in that big beautiful penthouse of hers?" Confused but curious, Ella nodded. "That mantle is bound with blood magic. Only a real Christophe with real Christophe blood can open it. When a new one is born, they take a needle and prick the baby's finger, and add it to the lock on the box. This way, you'll always be able to open it in later life. Can you guess what happens when the blood _doesn't_ react the way it's supposed to?"

Cringing, Ella said "I'm gonna guess they throw the baby into the sea…"

"Though I wouldn't put it passed your grandmother... Only once or twice has it happened, historically. The babies and mothers were just banished or disinherited, likely cursed. It's a pretty horrible fate. Blood magic like this was used to keep the lines real and pure, to keep the Christophe line alive. That's why you can cast the ever-elusive Cambius curse, exclusive to _only_ those to Christophe blood."

"But…" She smiled. "Wait." She smiled wider. "My grandmother's a spy, isn't she?" Hudson nodded. "They're _all_ spies?"

"Just the Christophes," he said. "Your grandmother's sister, Danae, thought, didn't quite have the stomach for it. She settled down pretty quick, got married… But your grandmother? She's still our top agent. She gathers intelligence all over Europe. There's not a spy _or_ an Auror alive worth their salt that doesn't know the name Helene Christophe."

"That's why they were after her?" Ella asked. "The Death Eaters?"

This part was tricky, but she didn't need to know about her grandmother and her history with Tom Riddle…not yet, at least. "Yeah. Something like that."

"So…by _blood_ , I am still a Christophe. I'm still a Spelling." She laughed. "Awesome." She then let out a big sigh of relief. "Um…is my… _conception_ mother still alive?"

"Unfortunately, no. She had some…complications as a side-effect of the spell and died soon after." The weight of the situation seemed to hit the kid hard.

"Wait…you killed her." Hudson searched for the words to say, to make it sound better than what it was, but there were none. "You performed a medical operation on a pregnant woman without her consent and she died as a result." Unsure of what to say, Hudson tried to take her hand, but she quickly pulled it away. "What about my father? My…seed planter guy?"

Hudson was dreading this particular part of the conversation. He noticed that the sun had shifted and it was now beginning to set. Ella was still looking at him, though, and he wasn't about to welch out on a deal. But, damn, if this wasn't just about the worst news you could deliver to a kid…"Page 67," he finally said. Ella opened the dossier again. "Lucas White. He's the Scourer that found, tortured, and killed your mother." She looked up in shock. "I'm sorry, kid," he said, sincerely. "There's no polite way to put it."

The blood drained from her face and she dropped the dossier. Her hands started shaking violently and she began to look around, her cheeks turning a queer sort of sour-apple green. "Shit—" Hudson sprung into action and snatched Professor Fivehorse's wastebasket up, just in time for Ella to fill it up with vomit. She choked and heaved and shook; Hudson held her hair back as she collapsed into a mess of heaving tears on the floor.

"Kid, I'm sorry," he said, his gut feeling about has heavy as a damn bag of hammers. "Kid, I'm so sorry." He set the basket aside and sat with her on the floor, rocking her back and forth as she cried. A piece of him wanted to know what he could say to her to make it better, but what the hell can you say in a situation like this? Nothing's gonna make this shit better. Goddamn, the poor kid was only 15… He kept on thinking about his daughters, how he'd explain it to them were it the same situation; nothing came. He'd tried walking himself through this conversation months, weeks, days before…not a goddamn thing made it better. Shit. This poor kid. "Kid, it's okay," he soothed. "I had the same reaction when I found out, too. Exact same. Spewed corn chowder everywhere," he said in a desperate attempt to make her laugh. It didn't work.

Finally, her breathing calmed. She wiped her nose on his shirt again, but he wasn't about to complain. "Is he…um…" She gulped. "Is he dead, now?"

Hudson shook his head. "No. But he's in custody."

"I want him."

"What?"

"I want him. I want to see him." He looked down at her tear-streaked face, her wide brown eyes. "I want to look in his eye before I kill him."

"See, I can't let you do that—"

"—WHY?!" she shouted with the force of a bombarda charm. "WHY TELL ME THESE THINGS IF YOU WON'T LET ME ACT?! WHAT IS THE POINT OF ALL OF THIS?!" She stood and pulled out her wand. "I WANT HIM AND I WANT HIM NOW!" Shit, this was serious now. Hudson slowly stood, keeping both his hands visible. "BRING – HIM – TO – ME!"

"Ella," he said calmly. "Ella. Listen." She lowered her wand slightly. "You want him? You can have him. But you can't – kill – him." She snapped her wand back up to his face. "It's our code. Auror's can't kill. We're heroes, kid. Heroes don't kill. We just catch the bad guys, okay? We're not executioners." Her jaw tightened. "Ella, I know you're mad. I'm mad, too. Your Mama wasn't just a great Auror, she was a great friend. We're all mad. There isn't a soul alive that wants to see that son of a bitch killed more than me. But you need to listen." She lowered her wand again. "We have work to do. By the time you're done with this mission, he'll be there waiting for you. You want five minutes with him? You can have your five minutes—but _only_ if you complete this mission your country has assigned for you."

"Your word," she whispered, her grip on her wand tightening. "I want your word."

"You have it," he said, extending his right hand, keeping his left hand still up. "You have my word—you complete this mission, you can have your time with him. You can even be there for the execution, if you want. I'll be there, too, sitting right next to you." She lowered her wand to her side, her breathing becoming more calm. "Shake my hand, Ella." Finally, she nodded, put her wand away, and shook his hand. "Good," he said. "Are you ready, then? Are you ready to serve your country?"

"Whether I am or not," she said, "You've held up your end of the bargain so far… I'm not about to welch on a deal." She smiled weakly. "What do I tell my dad?"

"You _can_ tell him everything I've told you, or… You can tell him that you've been accepted into the Foreign Exchange Program for Exceptional Young Witches. You'll be starting at Hogwarts for your fifth year, under the care of your legal guardian, Professor Severus Snape, and you'll stay with your grandmother over the summer, Madame Helene Christophe." She smiled. "You leave ten days after the school year is up here at Ilvermorny. Everything's taken care of for you: travel arrangements, your passport…and may I say, your grandmother is absolutely thrilled that you get to stay with her…in Monaco." Ella nodded and let out a deep breath. "Sounds a lot more glamorous than the truth, hm?" She nodded. "You ready?"

She smiled, let go of his hand, and saluted. "Agent Ella Zamora, reporting for duty, Chief."

Chief Hudson smiled, and saluted back. "Welcome to the service of the American Wizarding Investigation Bureau, Agent Zamora."

* * *

WOW this was an EXTREMELY emotional chapter for me to write. I'm not even kidding when I said I was sobbing like a fucking lunatic when I was writing this. But, hey, now we have some CONCRETE evidence of who Ella is and WHY she is in Hogwarts. This is the part where we REALLY piece together the puzzle and see that - shocker - Hermione was RIGHT. Why? Because she's Hermione, of course; she's always right. :3

This chapter hit me hard because it's dealing with some crazy fucked-up stuff. I mean...government abortions and womb transfers? Scourers? We get to see a bit more into Ella's psyche and get the REAL story behind her birth. That's quite a lot for a fifteen-year-old. Oh, and Chief Hudson is (in my head) played by Ernie Hudson...and, yeah, I totally planned that. Hah.

Anyway, enjoy. Thanks so much for your faithful reading and reviews, HeartofAspen, Pancakestack, and SabrinaJasmine!


	14. Chapter 14

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 16**

* * *

Ella woke up at 5 am, like always. She rose to the smell of flowers, which were still hanging over her canopy, growing up the posts of her bed; it was concrete proof that she hadn't dreamt last night. Oh, and look—her friends were still sleeping open-mouthed in a dog pile on Daphne's bed. Hilarious.

Stretching and deciding to simply brush her teeth and let them sleep for another hour or two, she changed into her exercise clothes and running shoes. She ran out of the dungeons and the very second she saw daylight, she changed into her raven form and soared upwards, out of the indoor corridors and up and out through the courtyard.

The September air was thrilling to fly in, so crisp, like a golden apple from Nana's garden back in Putnam County. A chilly gust lifted her high the very moment she peaked over Hogwarts castle's pitched roof, so high she wondered if the barrier would hit her on the head. With her raven eyes, she could see glimpses, shimmers of the magical barrier that was protecting them from Death Eaters at all times. Hogwarts was extremely dangerous, and she was likely foolish to be there—even more foolish for telling her father that it was perfectly safe and that she preferred it over Ilvermorny—but Ella was honestly too curious to _not_ see this thing through until the end.

Ella glided over the lake, close to the water, which was an amenity that she was happy to have. Mount Greylock was a heavily forested mountain which was very fun to fly through and lovely to fly over, but it wasn't Hogwarts lake, which froze over in the winter so you could ice skate with your friends. Ella's favorite season was winter, if only because of ice skating; some of her favorite childhood memories were of her parents holding her hands on either side as they skated on the lake at Nana's house. They would come inside for caramel apple cheesecake and Nana would put Ella in a handmade apron to match her own while they'd bake Christmas cookies together. Sadly, the all-American Christmas hadn't been the same since Mama had died, and her first French Christmas hadn't necessarily been better.

Last Christmas, she and _Meme_ went off to Paris to visit with friends and attended so many glamorous parties that it would make _any_ girl's head spin. It had been Ella's first time in Paris, and there was absolutely everything that a girl could want: fancy, sparkling cocktail dresses and handsome French wizards to dance the night away with until your feet hurt, grossly expensive cigars and champagne, carols under silver pine trees that were so tall you could scarcely see the top of them... _Meme_ was so happy that she could finally share her glamorous life with her only granddaughter, it drowned out _most_ of missing her mother, but it certainly didn't help that all of _Meme_ 's friends kept on commenting how there hadn't been much resemblance between the two of them at all.

' _I take after my father_ ' is what Ella would say while _Meme_ would say ' _Nonsense! She 'as 'er muzzer's eyes! 'er smile!'_ or _'Ze Christophes are Mediterranian and she 'as ze beautiful coloring. Just look at zat gorgeous black 'air of 'ers! Zat skin!'_ Ella didn't think that Mediterranian people had freckles or almond-shaped eyes, necessarily, but her father was convinced that Ella was his carbon copy.

' _She has my eyes!'_ was one of her father's pet sayings when describing Ella's looks. Daddy _did_ have sort of almond-shaped, narrow-ish eyes, but his eyes were hazel and Mama's eyes were dark brown. Daddy also had a dark complexion and full cheeks, which Ella shared, but she didn't have his dimples _or_ his giant teeth, which she was secretly grateful for.

Ella always grew up wanting her mother's looks. Penelope Zamora was truly a beautiful witch and she remembered everything about her face: pale white skin, doe-eyed with longer eyelashes than anybody should ever have, heart-shaped face and perfect eyebrows and perfect silky black hair, all the time, even when she had just woken up.

' _I wish I looked like you, Mama_ ,' Ella had once said when she watched her mother putting on long opera gloves and diamond earrings for some glamorous New York party she was readying herself for. She had been sitting at her mother's vanity, watching her powder her nose and spritz on perfume from a crystal bottle. Ella had meant it to be a compliment, but her mother seemed appalled at her statement, which she clearly vocalized in her combination British-Southern twang by saying:

' _Why in the name of God's green earth would you want to look like me when you could look like_ you _?'_

Ella wasn't sure why, but those words were the backbone of her memories with her mother. It wasn't the sunny garden or the tomatoes in the greenhouse or even the animals they cared for. It wasn't the palmiers or the deep-fried sweetbreads. It wasn't even the smell of her perfume and her white-carpeted closet, or even dancing to country swing in the middle of the night when they couldn't sleep. All of it was in that sentence, which was ultimately telling her to be proud of herself, to own her looks, and to never envy others…she guessed.

As soon as her thoughts were clear and her mind fully awake, she realized she'd made two laps around the Hogwarts grounds instead of her usual one. She flew up to the Astronomy tower and dove down through the open door, down the spiraling staircase, down through the corridors, down further through the dungeons, and finally reverting back to her human form in time to greet the Slytherin portrait.

"Password?" it demanded.

"Sanctity," Ella said, and it opened. Blaise was just coming up from the Boy's dormitory, dressed in freshly-pressed Quidditch robes. "Good morning, Blaise!" She glanced at the clock. "You sure are up early," she commented. "Are you exfoliating this morning?"

"I woke up around four and couldn't get back to sleep, so I already did it." he confessed. Ella looked a bit crestfallen.

"And you didn't think to wake me?" she pouted.

Blaise smirked. "Ha. Ha." Ella rolled her eyes with a grin. "Actually, I thought I'd have a quick fly around the Quidditch pitch before breakfast. Would you care to join me?"

"Sadly, _I_ just came back from my morning flight; the weather is just perfect right now."

"Do you fly every morning?" he asked, somehow surprised with himself that he didn't know she did.

"Every morning," she said. "I wake up at five, have a forty-five minute flight, come back and do _my_ skincare routine and then I can get ready for breakfast by seven-thirty."

He nodded and adopted a mock-serious tone. "I fear the time difference from England and France has set our clocks awry. Alas, we are out of sync." Ella loved Blaise; he was just as sarcastic and vain as she was.

Ella laughed through her nose. There was a tiny pause. "You know that you're my best friend, right?" He frowned suddenly, confused. "I know that sounds weird to say out loud, but…you really are my best friend."

Blaise nodded pointedly towards the girl's dormitory door. "What about your roommates?" he asked.

"They're great. Really," she insisted, putting her hands up in a defensive manor. "But they don't get me. You do." A beat. "I just wanted you to know that."

Blaise narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Why?"

Ella shrugged, her face neutral.

"Something happened between you and Draco last night, didn't it?" Ella's eyes shifted as she bit her lip. "Tell me." Ella held up her left hand. "Sweet. Salazar's. Tits." She shrugged again and shook her head. "He didn't." Ella shifted her weight from one leg to the other, and ran her tongue across her teeth. "And you said yes?"

"I said I'd wear the ring," she specified, a finger in the air.

"And why are you telling me, specifically?"

"Because Phoebus is a worse gossip than literally _every_ girl in this school, and the last thing I need is to hear a bunch of birds talking about my love life."

"So it's all because I can keep a secret."

Ella smiled. "Historically," she replied.

Blaise rolled his eyes and rubbed his temples with his perfectly manicured fingers. "Do you want advice?"

Ella sort of shifted and twitched her nose in thought. "I think I just wanted to tell somebody." The dark-skinned wizard nodded in understanding. "Anyway, I don't want to keep you from your flight." A beat. "Thanks for listening to me."

He waved a hand dismissively. "What are friends for?" Ella nodded with a grin and patted him on the shoulder as she walked away. "You know—" she pivoted on her heel to look back to her friend "—it's really not my place to say, but frankly I like you _much_ more than I like Draco—"

"—everyone likes me more than everyone else—" quipped Ella with a snarky laugh.

"— _but_ he's mentioned giving the Seeker position to Harper this year." Ella frowned. "No, you can't _give_ away the position, but Harper's the second-string Seeker anyhow, and Draco said he was pulling out."

Ella was shocked. "Why? Draco loves playing Quidditch—"

"Truthfully I think he likes showing off better than Quidditch—I" Ella shot him a tired look "—but he claims to have 'more important matters' to focus on this year." The young Slytherin frowned in thought. "While I'll admit that he's got extremely keen eyes, Harper's got sawdust for brains and I don't like the thought of relying on him for our victories." A beat. "Slytherin need brains, not brawn, and frankly Montague hasn't been right since that toilet-apparition fiasco."

"Graham's captain this year?" whispered Ella, horrified. "That's so stupid! Draco should be the captain and everyone knows it!"

Blaise shrugged, obviously tired with the entire ordeal. "I don't know, but between Montague, Crabbe, and Goyle, the Slytherin team is just a mindless pack of bludgers with arms," he said. "As your friend, I'm asking if you'll _at least_ find out what these 'more important matters' are to Draco?"

"And at most?"

"Convince him to keep his position on the team so we can continue winning."

"Of course I will—"

"—But be subtle—"

"—'Subtle' is my middle name—"

"—I know that's a lie because you refuse to _tell_ me your middle name—"

"—And I never will. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to exfoliate."

Blaise smiled and rolled his eyes. "See you at breakfast." The two of them about-faced and went on their separate ways; Ella passed a few first-years on the stair before deciding to fly straight down to the bottom, where her dormitory was. The glowing green lights and sounds of water bubbling through the windows were oddly soothing in their cozy dungeon dorm, and the girls woke up from their not-so-graceful slumber just as Ella was finishing her skincare routine and hair styling.

"Good morning, sleepyheads!" chirped Ella as she pulled off her bath robe and searched for a bra. "Sleep well?"

"W-What happened?" mumbled Tracey as she wiped drool off her cheek, a comical cowlick taking up half of her honey blonde bob.

Shrugging, Ella said "You all passed out, remember? You must've all been exhausted from the train ride." She clasped her bra and pulled out a pair of black stockings, which she skillfully rolled up her long legs. "Actually, it's kind of convenient. You all don't even have to get dressed."

Milly stirred as Christiana hopped on the bed and patted her face. Ella grinned as she pulled her skirt up her thighs and zipped it up. "Ohh," Milly sighed. "Oh I had the nicest dream…" She yawned. "I dreamt I went on a holiday to India."

Ella smiled. Her newest invention worked, at least, on Milly. "My Nana always told me that if you say a dream before you eat breakfast it's sure to come true," she commented, slipping on her white dress shirt and buttoning it up. "Tracey, did you dream anything?"

Tracey was the first on her feet, and didn't seem to be experiencing any grogginess at all. She smiled and stretched. "Actually, yes…" She went and flopped on her own bed to stretch out nice and long. "I dreamt that I—" Her face suddenly flushed pink. "A-Actually, it wasn't anything special. Never mind." She curled her toes and went into her trunk to busy herself.

Ella nodded with a smug grin. "Right," she said, leaning over and giving Daphne a slap on her thigh. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!"

Daphne quickly shot up, her elegant blonde waves now unceremoniously tangled. She immediately pointed a finger at Ella. "You!" she thrilled. "You drugged us!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ella replied.

"You did—I remember—you had this blue powder and then this dragon came out and destroyed the Muggle studies classroom…" Daphne suddenly stopped and looked thoughtful. "And then the dragon and I went off together to Madam Puddifoot's…" Milly snickered through her nose.

"That sounds like a fun dream," she commented.

"Get off my bed!" snapped Daphne, who gave her roommate a kick.

Ella snorted, and began to tie a double Windsor knot in her green striped tie as she slipped on her enchanted shoes, which were still in emerald green slipper form. She tapped the dance move to make them change, and the stylish black oxfords laced themselves up with precision. "I wonder if I should buy some black shoes just for school," she pondered aloud. "An enchanted object can only take so much before becoming sentient."

She glanced up to her friends, who were still getting sorted for the day. Ella mentally noted that grogginess seemed to be a side-effect of Polvosueño, and would record it when she was alone.

She looked back at her bed as she gathered her things; it was still covered from top to bottom with fragrant blooms. Ella plucked a red morning glory from its stem and tucked it behind her left ear for safekeeping. "Well, you all look like you're still dusting cobwebs off…" She grabbed her bookbag, which she'd packed the night before, and threw on her black robes with the shimmering Slytherin emblem on the breast. "See you in the Great Hall!"

Without waiting, she bounded up the stairs to the commonroom, where Draco and Pansy were having a rather heated discussion. Pansy had her back to Ella, and was clenching her fists rather tightly. Draco looked tired, both from the conversation and the lack of sleep, Ella guessed. She silently strolled up behind Pansy and waited for someone to notice her.

"She cannot just go 'round doing anything she wants!" Pansy growled in a voice that was both low and shrill at once, if at all possible. "I'm her Prefect and she needs to respect me—Little Miss Perfect already had her chance to be in that position and she turned it down. How do _you_ feel about that?"

"Aw, Pansy, you think I'm perfect? That's so nice of you." Pansy spun around in shock. Ella gave a chilling grin as she fiddled the silver locket Draco gave her with her left hand.

"This is a conversation between _Prefects_ ," she snarled.

"Pansy, enough." Both of them looked up at Draco, who looked more than exhausted with this entire situation. "I frankly couldn't care less what happened between the two of you. Should you have a problem, do something about it on your own and leave me out of it."

Ella frowned; that was unlike him. "Draco's right," she said, deciding not to let her thoughts dictate her immediate actions. "Leave him out of it. Either deal with me or take it to Professor Snape."

"Fine," snapped Pansy, who whipped her head around at her like a cobra. "Detention, Zamora."

Draco's eyes widened in shock; Ella didn't falter. "Your grounds for this punishment?" queried she.

"You mean aside from your constant cheek and disrespect—?"

"—My "constant cheek and disrespect" are highly subjective and therefore would not hold up in a court of law. You can't just give me detention for disliking me—this isn't the American military."

"That excessive destruction and modification of your dormitory, then!" Pansy snapped.

"Oh, please! They're flowers—flowers that were, by the way, created through a _very_ skillfully done herbological charm of conjuring. There is no _soil_ or _sun_ in this dungeon, so therefore the flowers are existing on a sheer magical influence. Now, if you would like to take it up to Professor Snape, our Head of House, that I have enchanted flowers in the dormitory—"

"—It's a disturbance to the other students—"

"—And which 'other students' are you referring to? My roommates? The ones you bullied just last night?"

Pansy guffawed. "I-I didn't—"

"—You didn't what, bully my roommates? Threaten them? Or did you not talk to them in regards of my 'distracting' enchanted flowers, so are therefore _assuming_ that they dislike sleeping next to them? Wow, I didn't know you could do occlumency, especially considering your grades are a little less than stellar..."

Appalled, Pansy opened her mouth to scream at Ella, but Ella saw Draco's pleading gaze over her shoulder so she decided to put an end to this.

"Don't you have First Years to rouse or something?"

"Yo—What?"

"The First Year Slytherin Girls. Aren't you going to wake them up and take them to breakfast?" A beat. "You know, ensure that everyone gets to classes on time? Help monitor the halls?" Another beat. "It's exactly 6:30 right now—you have to start knocking on doors to make sure they're all going to be awake. Honestly."

"She's right, Pansy—" Draco started.

"—Are you taking her side or mine?!" Pansy all but shrieked. "I'm telling Professor Snape—"

"—No." Ella drawled. " _I'm_ telling Professor Snape."

"Pansy, please," begged Draco. "Ella's done nothing to you. I'll thank you to leave her be. Just go rouse the first year girls, will you?" The tension was almost choking. Wordlessly, Pansy acquiesced and huffed off to the Slytherin girls' dormitory. Draco gave Ella a weary look.

"I didn't start this one, _she_ did," said Ella before he could speak. With slumped shoulders, Draco rolled his eyes. "What can I do?"

"You could make it easier on me," he said.

"By what? Just laying back and taking it?" Draco suddenly smirked at the phrasing. "Hush, you." Ella quelled. She walked up to him and grabbed his tie in her fist. "Good morning, sleepy head," she sang playfully as she pulled him into a kiss, which he happily returned. A tiny shiver went up her back when the taste on his tongue revealed that his toothpaste was a hot cinnamon flavor.

He pulled away, dazed. "It is now," he agreed. Draco sighed through his nose and closed his eyes, swaying. Ella tilted her brows up in concern.

"Did you sleep?" she asked. He bent his head and rubbed the space between his eyes with his fingers. "I guess that's a 'no'," she said as she loosened and then re-tightened his tie to fix the dimple, which was oddly too far to the left, a telltale sign that something was weighing on his mind. His Prefect pin, which she also unpinned and then repined, was also tilted anti-clockwise and a little too loosely on his chest, which was a sign that he was feeling that his position at school was likely far from his line of conscious thought. "Let's get some coffee in you."

"If you'd ever been to Italy, you'd know not to suggest the coffee here," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"Sadly, I've only ever been to Spain, outside of France and America..." Ella circled her arm around his and they began to walk together. "Have you had the coffee since I've been here?" He shook his head. "Then try it again. Trust me."

"You fixed it?" he asked. Ella nodded. "How?"

"I managed to snatch a House Elf by the ear," she admitted with a tiny laugh. "And if you knew how much I hated house elves, you'd think that was miraculous."

"House Elves are useful servants," Draco argued.

"So long as you don't have to look at them," Ella agreed. "They're just so weird-looking with their freaky tiny fingers and their freaky bug eyes and their freaky wrinkly skin that looks like it once belonged to a human but got dried up and soaked in a river or something." A laugh spurted from Draco's pursed lips.

"You certainly have a way with words," he said.

Ella laughed. "Well, when you study theater, it tends to rub off on you." Draco nodded silently. She wasn't certain if he was simply dead on his feet from the last night or if something were on his mind. It was most-likely the latter, as Draco _never_ had nothing to say. "I suppose we have mostly our same classes together?" He nodded with a yawn. _That's one point towards 'dead on his feet_ ,' thought Ella. "I'm excited to take Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning with Professor Snape," she commented. He smiled at her and continued walking, silently. "I suspect that you have Potions, too, with Snailhorn?"

"Slughorn," Draco corrected. _At least he's listening_ , thought Ella. "Horace Slughorn." Ella nodded and watched his face; there was something he was thinking about quite hard but attempting to not let it show. Draco an admittedly one of the hardest reads in the school, but Ella knew that, by the tone of his voice, it somehow had to do with his father. Dumbledore had said Slughorn 'returned' to Hogwarts, which—judging by his age—the old lumpy Wizard likely taught his father. There was a tinge of jealousy there, too, for the way Draco's throat had tensed, and the fact that he had a big Adam's apple made it even more obvious.

"When are the Slytherin Quidditch tryouts?" Draco was trying to keep his face neutral, but his lack of sleep was obviously hindering that.

"Are you planning on going out for the team?" he asked as they climbed the spiraling stairs to the ground floor.

"No, Professor Snape gave me permission to use his classroom as a meeting place for my Dueling Club, so I'm afraid I can't be involved in both."

"You must be thrilled about that." That was his first 'Draco' smile of the morning, with those words. It was the kind of smile that was a combination of smiling and knowing glances and that eyebrow raise thing he did. It could be either interpreted as sarcastic or endearing, but Ella couldn't see why it couldn't be both. Ella really did like Draco; he was her brand of sass.

"My point is," Ella began with a happy grin, "I want to know when to clear time to see the tryouts." Draco said nothing. "I was thinking of having the Dueling club meetings on Wednesdays but I didn't want it to interfere with the Slytherin Quidditch practices. That way I can still find time to watch you play."

They reached the courtyard and Ella noticed red sparks coming from the corner of her eye. She gasped and swatted at it, but she felt only a fragrant puff of air where her red morning glory had been. She glanced around and wondered if she had dropped it somewhere on the stone path.

"The enchantment," said Draco, "only lasts until the sunlight hits it." A beat. "If that's what you're wondering," he said.

A grin then crept on Ella's face. "So, that means, with my dorm room being so far underwater…?" Draco shrugged, giving that damn irresistible smile as an answer. _You clever-ass son of a bitch_ , thought Ella. She bumped his hip with hers, which caused him to laugh and take her hand and kiss her where he'd placed his Slytherin ring. "Seriously, when are tryouts and practices? I don't want to miss watching you."

He sighed and looked away. "I'm not going out for the team this year."

Ella stopped in her tracks and did her best to act as shocked as possible. "Why?"

He didn't make eye contact when he shook his head and said "I have too much to do this year." He was hiding something, and it wasn't his studies. "NEWT classes are exhausting," he continued, trying to strengthen his case. "We don't get all this free time for leisure, you know. It's all supposed to be to keep up with homework. My mother wants me to keep my grades up."

"I know for a _fact_ that you love playing Quidditch! I see how you play; I see your face before the games… You shouldn't deny yourself something that you love," she argued. Draco began to walk away when she caught his hand. He glanced over his shoulder; she tilted her brows up. "Listen, you're a _great_ Seeker. You won the House Cup for Slytherin last year, for God's sake! If that's not definitive proof that the Slytherin Quidditch team needs you, then I don't know what is. You're easily the smartest wizard in the whole House—" he seemed to smile at that "—and the team needs brains, not brawn. Please reconsider leaving the team, if not for the sake of yourself then for the sake of your friends that need you?" Ella felt a tiny twinge on the nerve of his wrist at the word 'friends.' "Yeah. ' _Friends_ ,'" said Ella with a smile. "You have friends."

A beat. "What about you?"

"I'm your friend first, of course, before anything else," said Ella with a shrug. "I'll support your decision no matter the conclusion. I just hope that you'll consider the feelings of those you'll be, possibly, letting down."

Draco looked either confused or concerned, but Ella wasn't about to let that break her smile, even though she realized how much she sounded like her dad in that moment(and it truthfully creeped her out to no end). She could see the wheels in his head turning behind those eyes. She liked Draco's eyes; they were pale gray one day and then they'd be pale blue another day. Today, they were gray.

"What, you don't want to be my friend?" With the look in those eyes she wondered if _he_ wondered if a romantic partner could be anything akin to friendly. He likely separated this relationship, convinced that friendship and romance couldn't coexist, which spoke volumes about the model his parents put up for him.

"Just..." He began. "I didn't know you liked Quidditch that much," he said.

"I don't like Quidditch; I like _you_. Big difference."

Ella knew his parents had an arranged marriage, of course, and she wouldn't expect much room for passion or romance, unless forced… Force, no matter how concealed, begets resistance. She wondered about his father and what kind of man he was, if he was as gentle and loving to Narcissa when he was a young man, too. Ella recalled his portrait in the gallery at Malfoy Manor, looking down that chiseled nose at her…

Something opened; she heard the crackling of a new book's spine being creased in the corners of her mind. The sound of a page being turned echoed in her ears, and she became lost in a sort of gray mist; it smelled like a foggy hillside. Flashes of Draco's childhood, of him crying in the corner of that big empty house, of being lonely all came and went in shadows. Suddenly, she was back in the corridor, standing near the courtyard, and they were still staring at each other. _Did we_ … _?_

His stomach growled, causing his pale cheeks to go a bit pink. He gave a shy smile. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. He didn't seem to quite know what she was doing, but he reluctantly hugged her back, loosely. He seemed confused.

"This is a hug, Draco. I'm hugging you," she said.

"I can see that."

"It means that I'm okay with showing the world that I mean to wrap my arms around you; on purpose." She couldn't see his face, but she could feel him frowning in confusion. She hugged him tighter in response.

"You're being weird…"

"Sorry to annoy you with my unwavering affection," she said, smiling into his shoulder.

"You smell different when you're awake." Ella quickly retracted and jumped backwards a fair distance. Draco laughed heartily. Realizing she'd been had, Ella snorted with open-mouthed glee.

She slapped him on the arm. "I hate you!" she laughed.

Draco stopped laughing, his eyes wide with shock. "Y-You do?"

"No-no-no, not like that!" Ella quickly insisted with much waving of her hands. "I don't hate you like "I hate you", I hate you like…I love you and you're my best friend in the whole wide world."

He raised one eyebrow in question and furrowed the other into a frown. "Well…" He began. "I…hate you, too?" They broke into a laugh together. The other students were obviously roused, now, and the corridors were beginning to flood.

"Let's eat."

Breakfast in the Great Hall was well met with friends. It was lots of fun being the Power-couple of Slytherin; Ella was Queen Bee, and Draco was her King. Her mission with the MACUSA was over; this year was going to be fun, and nothing and no one was going to stop it.

Sixteen is an amazing age to be, especially for Witches and Wizards like them. This year was meant to be scholastically exhausting, of course, but so long as she kept herself as organized as possible, it wouldn't be bad. She'll keep up with the study groups, organize the Dueling club, keep on top of her studies, and still make time on weekends to go to Honeydukes and watch the Quidditch games. Maybe on fairly un-windy days she could do her homework while she watched the practices?

Ever mindful of the hour, Draco got up first to go to Potions, their first class of the day, followed closely by Defense Against the Dark Arts. She wasn't sure if she was looking forward to the class with Professor Slughorn or not, but she definitely didn't like the book they were given. She had looked over all of her books the night they'd bought them, and Advanced Potion-Making didn't seem to be anything special…and, like many other old books, the recipes were sometimes wrong.

They arrived in the potions room to see that barely a dozen students had made it to the N.E.W.T. levels. Hermione, of course, was there, as well as a handful of Gryffindors, a Ravenclaw she didn't recognize, and a good bit of Slytherins—considering Vincent and Gregory were there, though, it certainly meant that Professor Slughorn was more lenient than Professor Snape with his prerequisites. She and Draco set up their stations next to Blaise's and went up to the head of the class to listen to his lecture.

Good lord, the man looked like a stuffy armchair. His cheeks were rather bulbous, as was the tip of his nose…he sort of reminded her of what a Santa Clause figurine might look like were it without the beard. She really was trying to pay attention, but the way he wore his trousers so high over his protruding belly button was just too distracting. He was going on about his potions and their curriculum when Harry and Ron came barging in.

"Ah, Harry m'boy, I was beginning to worry—and we've brought someone with us, I see?" said Sluggy.

"Ron Weasley, sir. But I'm dead-awful with Potions—a menace, actually, so I'll just be—" Ron obviously didn't want to be there, which was sort of amusing in its own way.

"—Nonsense, we'll sort you out. Any friend of Harry's is a friend of mine. Get your books out—"

"—Er, sorry, sir," began Harry, "I've not gotten my book, yet, and neither has Ron…"

"Not to worry, get what you like from the cupboard." Sluggy turned back to the class and motioned to the simmering cauldrons that were on the table. "Now, as I was saying, I've prepared some concoctions for this morning… Any idea what these might be?"

Ella's hand shot up, as did Hermione's. They looked at each other and exchanged looks; _just like last year_ , Ella inwardly groaned.

"Well," Sluggy laughed, obviously amused by the two girls. "Let's see, hmm, let's hear from—"

"AAAH!—Aaahh—I, er—ahem—" Ella tried her very best to regain her composure after that sort of shrieking wail, realizing all too late that it was because Draco had reached under her skirt and pinched her backside. She gave him a quick look before she stepped forward, her cheeks red.

"Ah, yes, the American? Very excited about potions, I see!"

She laughed nervously. "My name is Ella Zamora, sir," she said, looking at the potions. The one closest to her was a muddy, thick, nasty-smelling concoction that looked like sludge. "This is Polyjuice potion. Extremely time-consuming, it's main ingredient—the lacewing fly—must be stewed for twenty-one days before one even begins brewing. The final addition of the person you wish to transform into will cause the finished potion to vary in color and taste. It can transform you into any person, across ages and genders, but cross-species transformations aren't recommended."

"Very good, Miss Zamora!" praised Sluggy, his belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly. He pointed to Hermione. "And, now, you, Miss—?"

"Granger, sir—" Hermione stepped forward. "This one here is Veritaserum," she said, standing in front of the cauldron which contained a liquid that appeared to be boiling water. "It's a truth-telling serum, strictly controlled by the Ministry of Magic. Because it's effects can sometimes be resisted, it is not used in courts of law."

Ella tensed a little; before she could speak, Hermione had moved on to the third cauldron, even though it was _quite clearly_ Ella's turn—!

"And this is Amortentia, the most-powerful love potion in the world," she said, standing over a light-colored potion with a mother-of-pearl sheen. "It's rumored to smell different to each person, depending on what attracts them. For example, I smell…" Hermione's cheeks got rather flushed, her eyes glazed over a bit. "…Freshly-mowed grass and…new parchment, and…spearmint…toothpaste…"

Not about to be shown-up, Ella stepped in front of Hermione to address Sluggy. " _Real_ love," she began, "cannot be recreated through artificial means, and because of Amortentia's effects of _extremely_ powerful obsession and infatuation, it is better categorized as a love _poison_ , not potion." She shot Hermione a look before continuing. "In the states of Rhode island, Maine, and New York, it's considered among those substances known as "date rape drugs" and the retail sale of such potions are punishable by law…" Ella caught a whiff of mouth-watering, hot, buttery popcorn, which made her stop mid-sentence. "Ahm…" she gulped. "I-In 1967 the Supreme Court ruled that the brewing of Amortentia should be strictly prohibited in schools…" The thick scent of leather swirled in through her lungs, up between her thighs and crawled up her back, dancing with something woody, almost like the walnut desk in her father's office, and even the smell of Cognac and cigars. "…a-and only in 1972 did Ilvermorny's council decide to teach how to brew Amortentia, if only to show—side-by-side—the antidote for it…" Her tie felt pleasantly tight, her toes curled in her shoes, and the smell of sharp, crisp, cool green apple washed over and inside her. She swallowed and quickly retreated to the back of the classroom, her cheeks feeling more than hot. She fanned herself with her book, keeping an eye on the professor, who had gone on some other tangent about Amortentia.

A Gryffindor girl that she didn't know the name of asked about the tiny phial, which contained a glimmering, silvery-gold liquid. Ella frowned and took a few steps closer.

"What you see before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a curious little potion—"

"—That's Felix Felicis!" said Ella, her voice unintentionally cracking.

"Why, yes, Miss Zamora! Also known as—"

"—Liquid luck!" said Hermione.

"Yes, Miss Granger; 'Liquid Luck.'" He grinned, a twinkle in his eye. "Desperately tricky to make—" _No, it's not_ , thought Ella. "—disastrous should you get it wrong—" _Which I never would_ , thought Ella. "—One sip and you'll find that all your endeavors succeed…at least until the effects wear off." He paced around the room. "So this is what I offer today, to be awarded to the student that, in the hour that remains, produces an acceptable Draught of Living Death, the recipe for which can be found on page ten of your books." The students all quickly opened their books. "I should warn you, however, that only once has a student been able to procure a sufficient draught enough to claim this prize…nevertheless, good luck to you all."

Draught of Living Death. Good. She'd made that when she was ten for the Junior Potioneering Regional Championships as a representative of Putnam County. She won Regional, of course, and went on to Nationals, where she'd won the Golden Cauldron four years in a row. She flipped her hair back, threw her robes to the floor, heated her copper cauldron and gathered her ingredients. She opened the book for reference, but quickly closed it when she saw that it instructed to "cut up one Sopophorous bean"; you don't "cut" those things, you crush them...everybody knows that. Honestly, how could anyone be expected to make a sufficient potion with _that_ recipe when the author of this textbook was clearly an ignoramus and a cad with simply _no_ grasp of even the fundamentals? She thought angrily as she smashed the sopophorous bean with the blade of her Chef knife, much like how Mama used to smash garlic cloves and roughly chop them up.

She puffed her bangs up with annoyance as she diced the valerian root into cubes, her African sea salt resting in the water. _Amortentia,_ she angrily mused as she measured the essence of wormwood, _honestly who thinks to bring that garbage into a classroom full of horny teenagers? What a joke._ Suddenly Draco's clenched fist appeared right in front of her eyes, causing her to gasp.

"What the...?" He opened his clenched palm to reveal a sopophorous bean, which had clearly flown across the classroom by some mouth-breathing Philistine that had actually decided to _follow_ this stupid instruction of cutting the beans, even though crushing them was most-obviously the right way to extract any kind of juice. She looked to her left to meet his eyes, now fully awake. "How did you catch that if you were so dead on your feet this morning?" she asked as she stirred.

His brow was furrowed into a frown, but his lips were smiling. "Are you okay?" The way he asked made it quite clear that it was _not_ what he meant. She quickly turned away and busied herself with her work. He leaned in. "You seem flustered," he whispered.

"Crush the beans with the side of your blade, don't cut," she said shortly, motioning to his cutting board. As she added her sea salt water, she noticed that everyone at her table was following Draco's actions as she orated them. _Hm, maybe I could be a Potions Master someday..._ She poured in the wormwood essence slowly in a spiral pattern, and as it simmered it turned the color of black currant jam. _Good. Stay focused_. Ella knew how to brew Draught of Living Death in her sleep, so it was likely the responsible thing to do warn the classroom that she wasn't going off the book, especially considering that all of her classmates had been copying her movements and gestures since she'd arrived at Hogwarts. Truthfully, she never minded.

Some might think that copying off another's work was lazy and devious, but Ella didn't see it that way. So, Ella was a fantastic Potioneer, and that was a fact. How did Ella learn? Well, she'd had a mother that cooked, that was also a Potioneer, that came from a long line of Potioneers...the same principles of fine dining and professional cooking carried over into potions: organization, time management, keeping a clear head under pressure. Mama always said that Ella was special, that she'd do great things, all because she could keep a clear head when push came to shove. Ella was focused, instinctual...it was only when she _wasn't_ brewing potions that she got into trouble. As she stirred, her potion turned clear as water, and she added in the diced valerian root. She stirred until it smelled just right, then turned up the heat as she sprinkled the asphodel over the surface, stirring, sprinkling, stirring, sprinkling, stirring, until it was all smooth. She quickly turned off the heat and added in a final cube of Valerian root, popping the lid onto the cauldron and letting out a long breath.

 _Very good, Ella, you know you've been blessed with a gift!_ came her mother's voice in the back of her mind, a sign that she had done the potion correctly. She closed her eyes and waited; the hum of the classroom only a faint tingling in the back of her mind. She inhaled and her eyes shot wide open when she smelled a _correct_ brew of Draught of Living Death coming from one of the Gryffindor tables. Normally, it wouldn't be a surprise considering that Hermione was there, but the recipe was absolutely wrong so there was _no_ way anybody could have procured a correct draft from an incorrect recipe, especially this lot of sods. As she suspected, Hermione's hair was all awry and she was near-tears over her cauldron, where Harry was smiling at his book, following it to the letter. Ella frowned.

"Time's up!" came Sluggy's voice over the classroom. "Let's see how you all did." Ella opened her cauldron to reveal a pale pink color, the correct final color of this potion. She raised her hand, which caused Sluggy to hit the Slytherin table first. She glanced over and noticed that Gregory's glass stirrer had somehow warped, and Draco's potion was water-clear, but lacked the pink color. Ella felt a bit bleak, even if she was a little mad at him; his potion would likely knock someone out, but not put them into a coma. She felt even worse when the Professor came and put his stubby-fingered hand on Draco's shoulder, shaking his head at the cauldron.

"Close, Mister Malfoy, _very_ close, but no cigar..." He said the same thing to Blaise, whose potion _had_ turned pink, but it was rather opaque-looking versus clear. He didn't even stop at Gregory's or Vincent's, and went straight to Ella's cauldron. "Now, Miss Zamora, I noticed that you didn't even _look_ at your book!"

"I didn't need it," she answered with a curt grin. Sluggy loomed over her cauldron, his eyes growing wide.

"Merlin's Beard!" he exclaimed. "Extraordinary! Simply extraordinary!" He wafted the scent towards him, then took a dried leaf from his pocket and dropped it into her cauldron. It quickly turned an ember-gold around the edges and dissolved. "And you did all of this from memory?"

"If I've made a potion before, I tend to memorize it," she replied. "This way, if I need to make it again, I can do it quickly without having to sift and sort through a pile of books to do so."

"I should expect great things from you, Miss Zamora." He leaned in. "Your mother, Penelope, was exceptionally gifted, as well. I daresay you've surpassed her!"

Ella blushed a bit at that. "Thank you," she simply said.

Sluggy patted her on the shoulder and went on to his other evaluations. She sighed through her nose and bottled her potion in five glass flasks. She rinsed her cauldron, cleaned her station, and put everything back in her bag. As she made labels and attached them, the work of another student caught her ear.

"Harry...?" she whispered to herself in shock.

"Merlin's beard, it is perfect!" squealed Sluggy. "So perfect, I daresay one drop would kill us all!"

Ella's feathers ruffled and stood on end in a fit of inward fury. How the _fuck_ did Harry Potter make a Draught of Living Death with that book?! Upon a closer look when Slughorn called them both to the head of the classroom, she noticed that it was old and tattered...a different edition, with a better recipe printed inside? She stood across from Harry, who was obviously pleased with himself, but became visibly less pleased when he noticed the way Ella was looking at him. He seemed conflicted, to say the least.

"Now, then, this is _most_ unusual!" said the Professor. "Never in my tenure at Hogwarts, have I seen two such _extraordinary_ students in the same classroom, ready to battle!" He smiled them both, completely unaware that Ella had tossed Hermione out the window as her enemy in her mind and quickly replaced it with Harry. "Now, to decide this battle's outcome, I suggest—"

"—Let Harry have it, Professor," said Ella, locking her eyes with his, which caused more than a few gasps around the classroom.

"Oh?" Sluggy asked, confused.

Ella locked eyes with Harry. "I already know how to _make_ Felix Felicis." And she stormed out of the classroom, passed her Housemates.

"What's the matter with you?!" Draco whispered, infuriated. "We could have used that!" _He did_ not _just say 'we' to me right now..._ fumed Ella. "Ella!" he whispered.

She spun around on her heel and snorted. "Maybe," she whispered back. "You should have thought of that before you pinched my butt!" She snatched her bag up and stormed out of the classroom, down towards Defense Against the Dark Arts.

* * *

What a fun chapter! It's a little lighter than the previous one...still fun to write. I love writing for Ella. More to come in the sixth year of her education, and there's MORE twists...stay tuned! BIG thanks and love to HeartofAspen, Pancakestack, and SabrinaJasmine for my reviews...and thanks to all that read and subscribe!


	15. Chapter 15

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Draco 15**

* * *

"That American girl sure is cute."

"I hear she's famous in the states!"

"I heard she does potion broomstick commercials…in Japan!"

"I heard her hair is insured for 10,000 Galleons."

"Her father's a Congressman, did you know?"

"I can't believe she's in Slytherin—she's so friendly!"

"Are they dating now?"

"I hear she's got a snake tattoo on her boobs."

"She chose _him_?"

"I wish I looked like her!"

"Her mother was murdered by Witch-hunters."

"She's so smart! She's even smarter than Hermione Granger!"

"I heard she can talk to animals."

"The Spellings were the ones to industrialize potion-manufacturing."

"I heard she can summon storms—that's what it means to be in Thunderbird House at Ilvermorny!"

"I can't believe someone that pretty is dating Draco Malfoy—isn't she rich on her own?"

"Ella Zamora is flawless."

"What's she doing with a git like Malfoy?"

"She's so pretty!"

"She's organizing a pumpkin carving party for Halloween—have you seen the flyers?"

"Her hair smells of peaches—you can smell it when she walks by."

"She's too good for him."

"I heard Scourers are muggles that capture wizards and force them to oust out others through means of torture."

"I love this American food! Maybe we can convince the House Elves to keep making it after she goes home?"

"Her trunk says E.X.Z.–what do you think that stands for?"

" _Hola, guapo."_

Draco looked immediately to his right to see the flash of a soft thigh in a flouncy white cotton miniskirt, sitting on the table, attached to the longest, most-shapely legs he'd ever seen, wrapped in navy stockings. A hand came and took his chin to face upward, meeting the eyes of Ella Zamora.

"Eyes up here, slick," she said with a grin. He tried to think of a snarky remark, but he failed. "It's Saturday…. What are you doing today?"

"I hadn't any plans," he answered with a shrug.

"Good, because I want your help with something today," she said with a grin as she plopped down on the bench next to him. He could smell her fragrant hair; sweet and vibrant, like peaches, like summer. Her white blouse was just sheer enough that he could see the marks of her black brassier. "Meet me at the edge of the forest in half an hour; you might want to wear more comfortable shoes."

He frowned. "The _Forbidden_ forest?" balked Draco. "What are you going to be doing there?"

The American girl grinned. "Honestly, Draco, where's your sense of adventure?" Lost in her eyes, he felt her slide her palm over his knee, teasingly, absentmindedly going up the inside of his thigh. "I need you. Will you come with me?" A beat. "Please?"

Draco couldn't recall the last time he'd heard the words 'I need you' or 'I want your help,' if ever. He also couldn't recall the last time someone said 'please' to him in such a way. He was truthfully taken aback by it, and thought for a moment. After some consideration, he shrugged and said: "Why not?"

"I knew I could count on you!" She smiled. "I'll see you in half an hour." She leaned in and kissed him on the tip of his nose, causing a few sounds of silence all around the table. She stood and sauntered on down, between the aisles of the Great Hall tables, allowing Draco's eyes to wander up and down her form; up to her long curly hair and down to her cool gray boots. She barely got five paces before she stopped in front of Loony Lovegood, who was reading that ridiculous publication 'The Quibbler'. Zamora stopped and tilted her head in question, then cleared her throat. The pale Ravenclaw lowered the magazine to reveal her big blue bug eyes. Was she wearing…radish earrings?

"I hope you won't think me rude, but may I ask why you're reading upside-down?" he heard Zamora say.

"Reading upside-down tricks your brain into working harder as it absorbs the knowledge. It's like a sponge doing chin-ups," Loony's lofty voice lilted over the magazine.

"You don't say," replied Zamora. Draco heard whispered voices of gossip going all around him.

"You're an animagus," said Loony.

Zamora nodded. "I am," she said.

"Can you talk to birds when you transform into a raven?" _What kind of stupid question is that?_

Zamora smiled and sat down in front of Loony, leaning on her elbows with enthusiasm. "Actually, I don't even have to be in animal form to speak with birds…and it's not just birds! I can speak to any creature with enough avian qualities—Hippogriffs, for example." Draco heard quite a bit of gasps and remarks in the ranks of his fellow students.

"Could you speak to a Thestral?" asked Loony.

"What's a Thestral?"

"They're quite gentle, really. Lovely creatures. They're a kind of winged horse."

"Are they more equine or avian?"

"I'd say more equine, but also reptilian."

"Reptilian, eh?" Zamora considered this for a moment. "Well, I do speak Parseltongue, so I guess I could give it a go."

"You're a Parselmouth?"

Zamora laughed. "I think you're only a Parselmouth if you're _born_ with the ability; Parseltongue was a language elective at Ilvermorny," said she. "It's the most-common secondary language at Ilvermorny, next to Spanish, but I already speak Spanish. As it turns out, it's _extremely_ interesting, so I took it for all four years. I think I still have the textbooks. You're more than welcome to them, if _you're_ curious, too."

"Say something in Parseltongue," said Loony.

Zamora opened her mouth and out came a hissing sound, long and bone-chilling, with flecks and lisps here and there. Loony didn't flinch, where many students did.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"I said that I liked your hair—although it's technically 'fur', as Parseltongue has no word for 'hair,'" she said with a smile. Loony smiled, too. "Maybe if you find a Thestral, we could try and see if I can talk to it?"

"There's a whole flock of them that live in the forest. You'll be learning about them, soon, in Care of Magical Creatures."

"Are you a fifth year? I don't think I've seen you in my classes."

"No, I'm a fourth year. But I like Thestrals."

Zamora smiled. "I like creatures, too. My mother ran a rescue for magical creatures when she was still alive. We had a whole herd of Hippogriffs…that's when I learned I could talk to them."

"We have Hippogriffs here, too," said Loony. Draco inwardly cringed at that bloody chicken that almost murdered him just two years ago. He wasn't about to mention that to Zamora, though, with the way her face lit up.

"By chance, is one of them a gleaming chestnut called 'Fleetwing?'" she asked.

"Yes," said Loony. Zamora's face spread into a wide smile.

"That's _my_ old Hippogriff!" gasped the American, causing more than a small eruption of gossiping gasps around her. "When I was seven, we had a herd of them that we were rehabilitating. They were taken from a circus… I used to ride her all over our property! I heard she came back to Europe. What luck that she's here, if it _is_ her!"

Loony smiled. "They're extremely intelligent creatures. If it is her, I think she'll remember you."

"I'll be heartbroken if she doesn't, but I suppose I'll understand—I'm sure I've doubled in size since she's last seen me…" Whispers echoed all over as Zamora's mind spun behind her brown eyes. "Oh, but listen to me chattering on and on and I don't think I've even asked you your name! How rude of me!"

"I'm Luna, Luna Lovegood."

Zamora extended her hand. "Ella Zamora, simply delighted to meet you, Luna." Loony shook her hand; Draco realized that, as he had been watching, he wasn't certain if he saw the weird Ravenclaw girl blink once. "I must be off, but I'm sure we'll meet again—" Ella stood up and quickly stepped away to bump into Longbottom, carrying that freaky festering-boil-looking cactus of his. Quick as a hiccup, Longbottom's books fell to the floor and he was crouched over, staring open-mouthed at Ella, who had caught the freaky cactus with one hand. He quickly bent over and gathered his books.

"A-Ahm—er—uh—I'm s-s-s-sorry—"

"—Is…Is this a Mimbulus Mimbletonia?" Longbottom's fat white face went red as he stood up straight. "In real life?" Zamora asked. Draco huffed to himself, annoyed.

"Longbottom's a disgrace to the wizarding world, just like the Weasleys," said Draco to Crabbe and Goyle, who both nodded vigorously.

"I-I, ah…" Longbottom cleared his throat, and smiled; he looked rather stupid when he smiled. "Yes! My Great Uncle Algie got it for me for my birthday," he bragged.

"But they're so rare!" said Zamora, who seemed to be causing all the other girls in Hogwarts to eye Longbottom. "They're in paintings, sure, but I've never even _seen_ one in real life before, much less held one…" She then frowned. "Wait, when was your birthday, Neville?" His fat face went even redder than before, and Draco was sure he was going to pop. "Something I said?"

"No! No, not at all!" insisted the fat lard. "I-I just…I didn't know you knew my name."

Zamora laughed through her nose and went back to staring at the plant. "These are so valuable…you sure are lucky to have an uncle like the one you do," she said. "What are you planning on doing with it?"

"I'm going to try breeding it!" announced Longbottom, which seemed to impress Zamora.

"You must be really good at Herbology to even attempt it," she said. She then smiled and handed him the plant back. "Maybe when you succeed in breeding it, you'll be nice enough to let me buy one off of you?"

"No! I-I-I mean—erm, yes, of course, but—no, no I won't charge you for it! Y-Y-You can just h-h-have one! R-Really!" the fool stuttered.

"Chicken teeth—I won't hear of it. Compensation in exchange for goods and/or services," she said, her hands firmly on her hips. "I'll pay you every last dragot that it's worth—those things cost a fortune. I won't take 'no' for an answer. Not for your birthday present."

Longbottom's hands seemed to clutch the pot in resolve. "No. _I_ won't take 'no' for an answer. I-I-I'm going to breed this. A-A-And I'm going to give you one. As a gift."

The tension in the Great Hall could be cut with a knife. Draco could hardly believe what was going on. Longbottom was standing like there was a rod up his arse, and Zamora couldn't have been more…what was she? Either way, she eventually shrugged.

"If it means that much to you—"

"—It does! Really, it does!" squeaked Longbottom. Zamora laughed. She bent at the waist, examining the plant from every angle in his arms.

"Do you think that one will be ready for _my_ birthday?"

"Of course!" he squeaked in an unnaturally high voice. A beat. "Erm—just—?"

"March 3rd," she said.

"Wicked," he said. "March 3rd."

Zamora smiled. "If it's not ready by then, don't stress." She then reached into her shoulder bag and dug for something. Her eyebrows went up in satisfaction as she pulled out a well-read book. "Happy belated birthday, to _you_ ," she said, handing it to Longbottom, who took it with his free hand. "Don't judge the book by its cover. It's well-read, and I've scribbled in the margins, but it's got _loads_ of info on American herbology. Maybe you'll find it interesting?"

"Th-Thanks," squeaked Longbottom with a stupid-looking smile. Zamora smiled and walked away.

"She's talking to the losers' table," Draco heard someone whisper.

"What does a Mimbulus Mimbletonia do?"

"Longbottom's got a rare plant?"

"Where the bloody hell are Thestrals and Hippogriffs on the grounds?"

"Forget her, Draco." He turned to face Pansy. "She's a weirdo-loving thot." Draco had heard Pansy say similar things about others before, but somehow it never seemed this…ugly.

More whispers rose, and Draco heard them all as he stood. Crabbe and Goyle stood up, too, as did Pansy; Draco waved his hand at them dismissively and walked away, alone. The whispers surrounded him like a tunnel.

"How d'ye think Zamora will react when she finds out Malfoy had that one Hippogriff killed?"

"Her mum ran a Magical creatures rescue in America? How amazing!"

"You can _learn_ Parselmouth?!"

"She's a Dark Witch! That proves it! America sent us a Dark Witch!"

Parseltongue. Zamora spoke Parseltongue. And she had a Hippogriff? As a _pet_? What kind of Witch was she? What kind of people were her parents?

It had been two weeks since Hogwarts had started and classes were all in full swing. In that short time, Zamora had surpassed Granger in every academic pursuit, mastered every charm and transfiguration in each of their classes, and earned Slytherin an additional three-hundred and twenty-five points. When Draco looked around at the bulletin board in the Slytherin common room, he saw flyers for events and new organizations: student council, pumpkin carving, Thanksgiving Play Sign-ups... How was she doing it all?

Hogwarts was wrapped around Zamora's finger, and it was all too easy to see why, even though Draco didn't agree with her methods of gaining popularity. At every turn, he saw her talking to a new person—to _everyone_ she deemed 'interesting.' To Draco's horror, his fellow housemates were shifting allegiance to her. It didn't matter, though; she was still new, and everyone knows that people tire of new things, eventually. That's why Potter had to come up with a new 'oh my scar is hurting' every other week to keep people's interest. Tosser.

As Draco walked alone towards the dungeons, he couldn't help but notice how differently people were looking at him. The first day of classes was one thing, but the _second_ day of classes was entirely different. In a short twenty-four hours, Zamora had shown grace, strength, resolve, intelligence, _and_ cheek to the staff and student body, and they were talking about it. Draco wasn't sure how else to put it, but here it was: there was nothing in the world like walking into a room with that witch.

When she took Draco's arm, the whole school stared, not in fear but in admiration. The way she held her head high, the quick and powerful way she strode confidently caused all to scurry out of her way. When she walked into a room, it was clear that she owned the room, and everyone knew it. Everyone stared at her. Everyone was starting to stare at Draco in the same way.

He changed into a clean black linen shirt with a woolen coat over it. It was sunny outside, but that wouldn't likely last, considering it was autumn. He changed from his school shoes to his outdoor shoes, handsome black leather boots which he laced all the way up. He wondered why Zamora had chosen such skimpy clothes for a walk in the woods, and then quickly determined that it was likely she wished to show off and look nice.

When he met her at the edge of the forest, she was wearing a fitted cranberry red cardigan with fetching gold buttons and the gleaming golden Ilvermorny crest on the breast. She did look lovely, with her long hair down in a waterfall of healthy black curls. She smiled at him.

"Thirty minutes, on the nose," she commented.

"Punctuality is a sign of discipline and respect," he replied.

She seemed a little surprised for about half a moment, then quickly grinned. "You respect me," she said.

"I do," he admitted.

She nodded pointedly towards the forest. "Come on," she said. Draco hesitated. "What's wrong?"

Not wanting to admit his own reservations, he simply gestured to the woods. "You're not afraid of what's in there?"

Zamora grinned. "Not when I have such a powerful wizard on my arm to protect me."

"So you wanted me here as a human shield?" asked Draco, a bit turned off.

She glanced down for a moment, thought, and then took a step towards him. "Actually, I just wanted to be alone with you." Draco frowned.

"Why?" he asked before he realized what he was saying.

Her eyes went a little wide at his question, which truthfully came more out of impulse than anything. Eventually she shrugged. "I didn't think I needed a reason to want to," she stated. She then glanced over her shoulder. "What's in there, anyway? Hodags?"

Draco hadn't any idea as to what a Hodag was, but it didn't sound like any creature he'd ever heard of before, so he shook his head. "No."

"Glawackuses?" she asked, looking back at Draco.

He had _definitely_ never heard of one of those before, so he shook his head again.

She glanced at the forest again, then back at Draco. "Snallygasters? Hidebehinds? Wampus or Spintercats?"

At this point it sounded like she was making things up. "No, none of those things," he said. He looked back up to the Forbidden Forest. "But the fact of the matter is that I cannot allow you to go in there. Professor Snape made me responsible for you, and the Forbidden Forest is just that—forbidden."

Zamora frowned in thought. "This doesn't change the fact that I have to go in there," she said.

"Why do you have to go in there?"

She paused and wrinkled her nose in thought. "Can you keep a secret?" she asked with a grin.

Draco thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not?" he said, realizing he'd already come this far.

Zamora came close. "I need a tree," she said lowly, "specifically a pine tree. It has to be the right size, and it has to be the kind that's freshly-fallen, so that I'm not killing a young tree, but I'm not taking away a rotted one that could be home to someone else."

It seemed a rather specific thing, and a rather difficult thing, at that, especially considering the sheer size of the forest itself. "Why in the world would you need that?"

" _That_ part is a surprise." She then reached and clasped his hand, tightly lacing her long fingers with his. "Come on. We'll be safe as long as we're together. It's often the scary things in life that are the most worthwhile." She led him into the forest, passed the thickets and mossy knolls, down and up hills, deeper and deeper.

"You know I've the right to give you detention for this," he said, growing uneasy. He could swear he heard the Centaurs running in the distance.

"You do," she agreed. She turned and smiled at him, and he felt his stomach grow tight.

"You're not afraid I'm going to?"

She smiled again and shook her head. "No."

A lump caught in Draco's throat. He'd never held a girl's hand before, especially not the hand of a girl like this one. She really was quite lovely, and it was apparent that she—like others—was blossoming from girl to woman. He'd never seen anyone quite like her before, and he had to admit that he really did like how bold she was. She then turned and smiled at him.

"Tell me about yourself," she said.

"So this is your idea of a date?" he quipped with a grin.

She gave a laugh. "Well, you were taking forever to ask me on one, so…" He couldn't help but smile.

"Traipsing through a Forbidden Forest isn't my kind of romance," he said. "But perhaps you'd like to accompany me to Hogsmeade after this," he said.

Zamora smiled. "Mama told me all about Hogsmeade! She talked about the candy shop and the butterbeer… We have butterbeer in America, but she always said it wasn't the same, so I never bothered." ' _Mama_?' Thought Draco with an inward sneer. "When you were little, did your parents ever tell you stories about Hogwarts?"

"Certainly," he said. "They told me about the Slytherin Common Room, all about the friends they made…"

"They were popular, then?" she asked. "They're social people? Threw parties and such?"

Draco had to think for a moment before deciding that the answer was 'no.' "Father says that such frivolities are gauche."

"'Gauche'," laughed Zamora. "That sounds like the exact opposite of my parents. They were always throwing parties or _going_ to parties… Daddy was always at the Country Club with my grandparents on weekends, and we tagged along, too. We'd watch Lacrosse, Quidditch matches… There was always a benefit here or a gala ball there, but I never got to go to those. I was just to stay home with my Nanny." She laughed at the word 'nanny.' "It sounds so odd to say the word 'nanny,' I know, but I was very grateful to her—she was an Animagus, too, that could turn into a Trumpeter Swan. She was the one that taught me how to fly."

"Your mother and father didn't teach you?" Zamora shook her head; Draco frowned. "Aren't those traits hereditary?" he asked.

"Animagus traits?" she asked. "Oh, I suppose," she said. "It must be recessive in my bloodline. I'm the only one in my family that can do it naturally. One of my cousins tried to train to be one at school, but it didn't really work out. Her animagus form is a toad—which is hilarious, if you've met her."

"I thought about training to become an Animagus once," he said, looking away.

"What kind of animal do you think you'd like to be?"

"Something that flies," he initially answered. "Something powerful."

"A dragon?" said Zamora, leaning her cheek on his shoulder as they walked.

Draco sort of shrugged, then grinned, feeling heat in his cheeks grow as he realized how close she was. "That might be fun," he mentioned.

"Yeah… Not very subtle, though. If you ask me, the biggest benefit of being an Animagus is that you can blend in or spy without being noticed. I don't suppose you could be subtle as a dragon."

"I suppose not. An owl might be subtle enough," supposed Draco.

"I love owls. They're not particularly powerful, though. Perhaps something with a little more panache, like a Bald Eagle? Or a Kestral?" He looked over at her. "Then you could fly with me." She smiled again.

He couldn't help but smile back. "Are you still 'you' when you change?" he asked, pulling away just enough to look at her face. "You still…?" He wasn't quite sure what he was asking. The way that her hair caught the dappled sunlight was truly making it hard to concentrate on conversation. She smiled.

"I do. I'm still fully conscious, lucid—whatever you wish to call it. To be fair, though, I can't say if it's the same for every Animagus. I couldn't even tell you what it's like, to be a raven… I've been doing it since before I was born, so it's not like I have much basis for comparison…know what I mean?"

He nodded 'yes,' even though he didn't quite understand, but he had an idea of what she meant. His eyes wandered through the forest, which was mossy and foggy and dark, even though it was early morning. He quickly concluded to himself that should they get caught, he was merely being a good Prefect by going in after a student that had wandered out of bounds. Even better, he'd be the hero that went into the dark forest and rescued who had gotten lost. He noted that she was still holding his hand, and the more he thought about holding hands with a pretty girl, the more he felt as if his insides were cold butter on warm toast. She turned back at him and smiled.

"Slim pickings, so far," she commented.

"We've only been walking for a moment," he replied. Zamora nodded and continued looking around.

"Mostly fir trees, it seems," she said; he noticed how her dark brown eyes seemed to glow a golden chestnut color when the light caught them just right. "Pine trees tend to grow in more mountainous areas…I was hoping that there would be some here."

"I can't ever recall seeing pine trees around here," he commented. "What will you do if you can't find what you're looking for?" he asked.

"I've got a Plan B," she replied, scanning the trees. He noticed how bright and alive her eyes were, how a million thoughts must be racing behind them. She was nothing like Pansy, who only looked at him. Zamora was engaged in her intents, clearly passionate and exceedingly cleaver. Somehow, Pansy's devotion seemed to pale in comparison; it seemed so shallow all of a sudden.

Pansy hadn't necessarily been Draco's girlfriend, but she was the prettiest girl in Slytherin House that was also a Pureblood and unfailingly loyal to Draco and his every whim. She wasn't ever in front of him, like Zamora was, but always trailing behind, always asking if he was alright when injured, always swooning at the sight of him. He enjoyed the attention, of course, but now it was just so…superficial. The difference suddenly became clear in his mind, as she pointed towards an upward slope and tugged him along by the hand: Pansy was simply ecstatic to simply simper on his arm and take his cue; Zamora strode proudly, side by side, as an equal.

As they climbed higher, Draco noticed that the fog was thinning and mountain flowers were fading from their summer colors. He wondered if they were trespassing on Centaur land, or if any giants might come bounding out. He also wondered what the creatures she was speaking of were, and why there might be any in the Forbidden Forest. They were likely American creatures, and she seemed to know lots about them, but he was beginning to wonder…

"What's a Snallygaster?" he asked.

"It's an American dragon that's native to the East coast," she answered, looking around. "They tend to like hilly areas like this," she said. "They're distinguished by their metallic beaks and belly-tentacles."

"'Belly tentacles'?" Draco repeated in horror.

"Oh, yes," said Zamora. "Snallygasters have four legs, but they have these long, octopus-like tentacles that are tucked up under their bellies and come out to snatch unwary prey from the ground. They're extremely dangerous because they don't make noise when they fly."

Draco cringed in horror. "How are you supposed to defend yourself against one?" he balked.

Zamora shrugged. "They say that Dwayyo urine, sprinkled around your property, is a good way to keep them at bay, but I've never seen anyone actually do it. Snallygasters and Dwayyos are natural-born enemies, but nobody's sure why. I hear that you can buy Dwayyo urine in hunting supply stores, but I don't know if it's the real stuff, considering how Dwayyo's are..." She then gave a sort of dismissive laugh. "To tell you the truth, though, it's easy enough to keep out of Snallygaster territory, so most Wizards and Witches simply avoid them."

He felt a little terrified that such a creature existed. "What if one catches you?" he asked.

Zamora shrugged again. "Make peace with God, I guess." He gulped. "At Ilvermorny, they teach us how to identify when we're in Snallygaster territory, their behavior patterns and how to avoid them…but that's it." She then smiled. "Why do you think you've never heard of one before? You can't tame them; any Dragonologist will tell you so. That's why they weren't in the Triwizard Tournament last year." Zamora looked up at the canopy. "Y'know, Nana always told me that there were Snallygasters in the forest near where she lives, but I think that was to keep me indoors after dark."

"'Nana?'" he asked.

"My grandmother—my dad's mother, not my mom's. I call my mom's mother _Meme_. Did you know she's going to take me to Paris for Christmas? I'm so excited for it; I've never been to Paris. Barcelona, yes, and San Sebastien, but never Paris… Have you ever been to Paris?"

"When I was four," he commented. "Though I frankly don't remember it…" He would normally say something dismissive, something to infer that it was truly boring and beneath him, but he didn't.

"I don't see the point in going on vacations with very small children," she said. "My parents and I didn't travel until I was seven or eight, when I was old enough to _really_ remember it. It was my mother's idea; she said that she doesn't recall much before age six or seven." A beat. "Well, 'didn't' recall much before age six or seven…" Zamora suddenly sighed and grew very quiet, looking around, avoiding his eyes. He felt her palm go sort of cold and clammy in his.

By now, the stories had flown all around Hogwarts and Zamora was more famous than Potter. Her mother was tortured and burned alive by Scourers, they say. Draco had heard of Muggles being the lowly bottom-feeders of the world, but it hadn't occurred to him that they were truly dangerous. He was told, of course, to stay away from them, to never expose the Wizarding World to them, but he'd never met anyone who had come in such dangerous contact with them. He wondered if she was alright; she certainly seemed to be, though he couldn't be sure. Truly, this was more proof that only Purebloods should be allowed to learn the magical arts.

"Hmm," she said, stopping near the top of the hill, where a bit of a rocky clearing was. "Shall we keep looking?" she asked. "I'm wondering if this is even the right place to find Pine trees…"

He didn't want to go back to the castle, nor off to Hogsmeade quite yet. He hadn't realized how much he had wanted to be alone with her until they were. Out of everyone in the whole school, she'd chosen him, and everyone had seen. He looked up at a great fir at which they were near the base of. "Wait here," he said, taking out his wand and stepping directly underneath the tree.

Draco shot his wand into the air. " _Ascendio!_ " He shot straight up and into the fir's branches and caught onto one of the larger ones. He put his wand in his mouth and brought his leg up to grip on and began to climb. The tree was old enough and thick enough to be sturdy near the top, enough to see over the forest, to see if he could identify any pine trees.

He grunted as he struggled upwards, but he found his footing with a fair amount of ease. Fir trees weren't the ideal type for climbing, in Draco's mind; he much preferred things like oak or willow trees to climb, for they were much more interesting. A tree like a fir tree generally had an arrow-straight trunk and plenty of branches grown in a sort of spiral-like succession, but it truthfully made him dizzy, spinning around like that. With climbing an oak tree, you could see everything, and make jumps or swings to other branches which led you higher. He was unsure of how high he was, but Draco wasn't afraid of heights. He finally reached the top of the tree. He swung his arms over the top-most branch to hoist himself up, only to find that Ella was already there, perched on a branch on the other side of the trunk as him.

"How did—?!" He quickly caught his wand with his free hand as it fell from between his teeth.

She pointed at herself. "Raven," she said. Draco's initial reaction was annoyance, but he was then impressed. She _certainly_ wasn't afraid of heights. He looked away, his eyes scanning over the forest. It was then that Draco saw how far they were from the castle, and just how far the Forbidden Forest spanned. "It's beautiful up here," she commented. Draco then felt her hand atop his, which was gripped around the trunk of the tree. He couldn't help but smile.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "It is."

"I love forests," she softly whispered. "They're both quiet and safe as well as loud and dangerous, all at once." She deeply inhaled as a breeze came. "Smell that?" she asked. "There are pine trees here, for sure." She looked south, from whence the wind came. "Perhaps this way?"

Draco looked. He scanned the tops of the trees, and pointed to where he saw a Pine grove. "There. You see?"

Ella transformed into a raven again and flew around to share his branch before transforming into a human girl again. The tree's bough bent, but not enough to worry. She frowned. "Where?"

Draco pointed straight ahead. "Just there, by that cliff. You can't see it?" She shrugged.

"No… You must have amazing vision," she said, grinning at him. He shrugged and smiled at the compliment. "But of course you have amazing vision!" she then chastised herself. "It's not like you'd be awarded the position of Seeker had you _un-_ amazing vision!"

"Naturally," he agreed. "Y'know it's not just me being Seeker—when I _got_ the position, my father bought the entire team a round of Nimbus 2001s." He looked away, grinning, then glanced back to see if she was swooning; she wasn't. She was smiling, but she certainly wasn't swooning.

"That was very nice of him," she commented.

He suddenly became annoyed. "Do you even know what a Nimbus 2001 is?" he sneered.

Zamora shrugged, then shook her head with a smile. "The best racing broomstick that money can buy?"

He glared and looked away, feeling miffed. He heard her scoff, and then the beating of wings. She landed around the trunk of the tree, her feet sharing his same branch, her arms sharing the same his own were swung over; her face was inches from his. "Are you _honestly_ sore with me for not swooning at your money?" she asked quietly, her eyes studying his. " _Lo siento mucho, guapo._ You'll have to find another way to impress me. I'm rich, too." She swung an arm off the branch and hung off the bough of the tree, stretching. "Anyway, you should look at it like you now have the opportunity to educate me on something you like. It's not like _I'd_ get sore with you for knowing nothing about flying."

"I know plenty about flying!" Draco protested.

"Oh?" She snapped her head up and brought her body towards his again. "Prove it," she challenged with a grin, a sudden spark behind her warm brown eyes. "Race me to the pine grove." Before Draco could ask 'how', Zamora whipped out her wand. "Last one there's a rotten egg." She quirked a brow when he frowned. "Scared?"

Against the wishes of the voice of better judgement in his head, Draco sneered and said: "Do your worst."

She whipped her wand at him and cast: " _Mutata figura!_ "

A white-and-purple light swirled from her wand and he felt himself shrink. He almost screamed, but this voice sounded extremely shrill. He looked around and the world was entirely different, swirling in colors he hadn't ever been able to imagine, light patterns invisible to the human eye...he heard her laugh and fall backwards from the tree. He jumped out after her and held out his arms, but they weren't arms. He stretched his limbs out and _whoosh_ he went upwards, so high, higher than the tops of all the trees.

A cawing raven, beautiful and powerful, soon joined at his side, with the flap of wings. He flapped, too, and flew higher. He felt clumsy and scared, and couldn't help but notice the thirty-something new shades of light and shadow he could see. What could describe that, the way the light now seemed to fall in ribbons and waves, like an ocean? He looked again, and the beautiful raven's feathers shone iridescently in a rainbow of color when the light hit it just right. The wind, the air, everything around him seemed tight and loose all at once. But the raven was flying fast ahead of him, and he couldn't allow that to happen.

He flapped and dove, dove and flapped, following and watching as her tail feathers moved. She quickly dropped down, and when he didn't, he was violently shoved up and to the side with a gust of wind. He tumbled and tried to fly straight, but it was no use, for he fell through the canopy of the trees. By the time he reached the tops again, the beautiful raven was out of sight. Draco panicked and raced to the pine grove as fast as the wings she had given him could take him. He wondered what kind of bird he now was, and if all birds could see this glorious spectrum of light and shadow. He wondered how it would feel to be another type of animal. Once he realized how wonderful flying felt, he was overcome with a strange sort of floating joy that he hadn't felt in...well, he couldn't recall.

When he reached the pine grove, he dipped down into the canopy, calling out in chirps. He then found Zamora, standing in a clearing, beneath one of the pines. He swooped around to her, and with a flick of her wand, he changed back to his human form mid-flight, landing hard on top of her with a thump. They fell hard on the forest floor, and Zamora began to laugh heartily. Draco couldn't help but throw his head back in laughter as he propped himself up with his hands. He looked down at the gorgeous girl spread beneath him, whose cheeks were flushed with laughter and eyes bright with joy. Her hair was splayed out gracefully, like tangled ivy in a halo around her head. His laughing slowed; she grinned and gave him a...look.

If you were to ask Draco what _kind_ of a look this might be, he couldn't tell you. It wasn't a smile, nor a wince in pain, nor even a jest. It was a look of...well, he didn't know. He felt the inside of her thigh suddenly push him over on his back, and the next thing he knew he was pinned beneath her, nestled between her legs. He quickly tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down to the ground with a thump. He was certain the blood drained from his face when she grinned the way she did and tucked a curl behind her ear. He felt a sort of strange heat and rigidity in his body as she leaned down slowly, and in that moment he realized that they were about to kiss. She put her hands on his chest and let her body slowly press into his. He closed his eyes and tensed as he felt her curls falling on his face, her hot breath on his lips...

"Z-Zamora—"

"—'Ella,'" she whispered, her lips brushing against his. "My name is Ella."

Draco opened his eyes and became lost and found all at once. She was everything, and for a moment he felt whole in a way he didn't know he could feel. He gulped, and out of his mouth spilled: "Your eyes in Heaven, which through the airy region stream so bright, that birds would sing and think it were not night."

Suddenly, she stopped and pulled away, her eyes wide. "Shakespeare?" she asked.

Draco gulped. "I found it in the library, once," he said. "It looked interesting. Turns out it was." He felt her body shake a little with a tiny laugh; he gulped and put his hands on her hips. She quirked an eyebrow with a grin. "My father says I ought not to read such romantic dribble—"

"—Your father is wrong," she stated. He felt his body twitch beneath her. "Close your eyes," she said. Draco gulped. "Close your eyes," she whispered again. He licked his lips nervously and gulped. "Fine," she whispered with a grin. "Keep them open." She closed her eyes and leaned down, only to stop just as quickly when a sort of strange grumbling was heard. She tensed and looked up; her body hardened in fear. Draco quickly shot his gaze upward, paralyzed in fear. "It's...!" she gasped.

"GIANT!"

* * *

HAH! I'm such an asshole for cutting it off at this point...but it's like midnight where I am right now and I'm really tired.

This is a fun chapter. We know lots of things about what happened after this, but it's really fun to see how it all began. I figured it'd be fun if the No-Maj classics had made it into the Hogwarts Library circulation through the years, because hey, why not? And we don't know that Shakespeare wasn't a Wizard! What if he was a Squib, really writing about all of the real witches he knew from Macbeth? I also didn't feel like composing anything in iambic pentameter at midnight...but I needed something fun.

Make sure you try to pick up on details, because they'll matter later. PROMISE! As always, thank you to HeartofAspen, SabrinaJasmine, and Pancakestack for reading and reviewing!


	16. Chapter 16

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 16**

* * *

"I still don't understand why I'm doing this," she commented, standing over her copper cauldron, which was bubbling full-over with a black, tar-like liquid. "I've perfected the Wolfsbane potion. I'm _good_ at it. I don't see why I'm making so much of it." She gathered the Monkshood blooms and began plucking them, then rubbing it between her palms gently.

" _Quiet_ ," growled Snape without looking up from the pile of scrolls he was grading.

"All I'm saying is that I have the right to know!" She grated essence of silverdust into a mortar and ground it with powdered moonstone. "Can't I make something else?" He glared at her in annoyance, and went back to grading papers. "There's a whole section of potions I've never even _heard_ of! Can't I try one of those instead? _Please_?"

Snape's eyes darted through his eyebrows up at her with anger. "Do you want those extra points or not?" he snapped.

Ella snorted in annoyance and busied herself with the potion. She added her powders to her Monkshood blooms and made a thick paste, adding three-and-one-half drops of dittany after counting to thirty-one. The potion was now turning sludge-like from tar-like, which was a good sign. She dolloped three tablespoons of the floral paste in and the potion turned a bright and shining silvery blue all at once, thin as water with a faint blue smoke. She turned off her heat and stirred to cool it quickly, blasting a small gust of wind with her wand at the cauldron's base to help.

Rather annoyed, she uncorked three opaque glass bottles as her enchanted stirrer kept whipping. She pinched in the Chinese river moss, covered it, and began counting to 79. This was the third batch of Wolfsbane potion she'd made for Professor Snape, and she _knew_ she was still doing it right by now. Do it once for a first try? Fine. Do it again to make sure you have it right? Okay. But thrice? Something wasn't adding up.

If each batch Ella made always resulted in three bottles, Professor Snape should have _six_ in his cabinet already. You take Wolfsbane potion once at the new moon, once the week before the full moon, and then once more at the night of the full moon, which _should_ render the drinker to ease your rage and maintain your mental faculties during transformation, allowing you to sleep it off. This would mean that a werewolf needs three potions _per month_. Ella had made a batch over the summer, then at the beginning of the term for an extra fifty points of extra credit towards the House Cup. If she was making one batch, once per month, then it means that somebody was using it.

As she bottled the potion, she glared over at the Professor, who was hell-bent on keeping the truth from her. If there _was_ a werewolf in Hogwarts, it's likely that Professor Snape needed it for them tonight, Friday the 27th. She glanced down at the bottles in her hands; if she was going to learn the truth, she'd have to take matters into her own hands…

The final incantation must be spoken with the wave of a wand over the bottle, otherwise the potion is rendered useless—just some foul-tasting bile that does nothing. She looked up; Professor Snape wasn't watching her, just grading his term papers.

" _Homines teneatur_ ,"she simply said aloud without casting. Professor Snape didn't see her not waving the wand, not casting the spell. He was too busy, grumbling to himself at all of the scrolls in front of him. She then took all three bottles, corked them, and brought them to his desk.

"Finished, then?" he asked without looking up. Ella said nothing. "Very well, Zamora." He dipped his quill into his inkpot and continued crossing out incorrect answers on the tests he was grading. "Fifty points to Slytherin House, as promised."

"There's someone using these, isn't there?" Snape looked up through his eyebrows. "Isn't there?" she pressed. "Is it for Remus Lupin?" Snape sneered. "Then who? Who, if not him?"

"Clean up. Get out of my classroom. And go back to your dormitory." He returned his attention to his papers. She slammed the bottles on the table and huffed off. She shoved her cauldron and potions kit together, stuffing them into her Shoulder-bag of Holding rather loudly. He wasn't budging. Ella nearly screamed in frustration as she stormed out, stomping rather loudly indeed, and slamming the door on her way out.

Ella silently rampaged through the corridor, her fellow students quickly rushing out of her way when they saw her coming. Tonight was Friday, which means that the whole school would be in bed early for the first Quidditch match of the season to begin, Slytherin versus Ravenclaw. Draco had chosen to not abdicate his duty as Seeker, and would be getting a good night's rest, along with Blaise, Vincent and Gregory, et cetera. This was a good thing, as this meant there was nobody she truly cared about would get in her way. Ella was going to get to the bottom of this mystery, and that was that.

The full moon would peak over the horizon at about 7:09 that evening. Hogwarts was crawling with Aurors, but she wasn't sure if they all knew that _she_ was an Animagus. They definitely didn't know she could speak to birds, though they might know she could speak Parseltongue. She could ask the animals for help, but she couldn't very well be discreet about it.

So, let's think:

Professor Snape is a Potionsmaster, and Ella his promising protégé. Ella was brewing Wolfsbane potion, a month's supply at a time. The batch she had brewed just now—and purposefully incompletely—was for this evening. There was no true begrudging look in Snape's eyes just now, so the culprit was not a teacher, nor a Gryffindor student. Professor Flitwick was not distracted nor selecting specifically difficult polyphonic scores since the beginning of the year, so it was likely not a Ravenclaw. Professor Sprout and Professor Snape got along well enough, but what Hufflepuff student in their right mind would come to Hogwarts while being a Werewolf? None, that's what, and especially no parents that had _raised_ a Hufflepuff would allow it...

If the Werewolf was a professor, Snape would be brewing it himself and leaving Ella out of it. Since it was a student, and since Ella was _supposed_ to learn how to make it perfectly on a consistent basis, it could only be assumed that the Werewolf _student_ was a Slytherin, and someone that Ella either cared deeply for or held a great disdain for.

As she came down the dungeons, it hit her: Pansy.

Pansy always was emotional and nasty, and growled, and the bitch could bite… This would explain her resentment towards Ella, of course, as Pansy was a less-than-stellar Potioneer, and why shouldn't she be bitterly jealous of Ella's skills when she was suffering from an affliction that could be eased so greatly with potions? This would also explain why she was jealous of Ella getting Draco: he was the richest wizard in this school, and Wolfsbane did _not_ come cheap, nor would it come cheaply to anyone other than a well-to-do, well-married Witch. It was with this realization that Ella _almost_ felt sorry for Pansy…almost.

Alright, so Pansy's the Werewolf. With her Prefect status, it made almost too much sense for her to be going around after hours during full moons, escaping the castle grounds to possibly sleep it off in the forest – which would explain why her hair was always so awful – and always looking so damn haggard all the time. That being said, Ella couldn't allow a Werewolf to prowl Hogwarts.

If the full moon was tonight, and if Pansy was a Slytherin Prefect, then this means that she prowled the dungeons and the first-floor corridors that led to them after hours. It was likely that she'd exit the castle from the West Wing, going towards Hagrid's hut in the forest. If Ella snuck out between six and seven pm, and waited near that courtyard so she could watch were Pansy came out and transformed, she could use the Polvosueño to knock her out safely until she got Professor Dumbledore and the rest of the Aurors. Then, Pansy would be out of Hogwarts – and out of Ella's hair—for good.

Fucking finally.

The sun was beginning to set on Hogwarts as she reached the Slytherin Common Room. Teddy was sitting on the couch, reading and snacking on the last of the black currant pate du fruits. Ella popped her bag on the couch next to him and climbed over the back to sit.

"Whatcha reading?"

He pinched the space between his eyes in frustration. "I'm trying to knock out this stupid Divination Homework…" he sighed.

Ella frowned. "You're struggling with Divination? You can make up half of it, I guarantee. That Trelawney lady is a total drunk—she won't even notice." She took her shoes off and tucked her feet under herself as she lounged. "She hides her sherry in that storage room upstairs, you know. It's right in the old purple cabinet."

He threw his head back on the couch and groaned deeply. "I've been pushing it off every week and now it's piling up… Bloody Transfigurations is killing me and now I'm suffering in other classes!"

"Do you want help?" Ella asked, pulling out her copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration from her bag. "I'm _really_ good at Transfiguration! I got an Outstanding on my O.W.L. last year, regardless of the fact that McGonagall hates my guts."

He, very rudely, rolled his eyes. "Yes, little Miss 'I can conjure a flock of flamingos with a wave of my wand'—"

"—Flamboyance."

"What?"

"The group noun for flamingo is 'flamboyance.' I conjured a _flamboyance_ of flamingos." Teddy sneered. "What? You don't want help from your dear, dear friend that conjured a flamboyance of flamingos?"

Teddy moaned and looked away. "No, I need to get this under control for myself…" he sighed.

Ella frowned. "There's no shame in asking for help," she said. "Maybe McGonagall is just…not explaining it in a way that you can understand?" She shook her textbook at him. "C'mon! Let me help!" Teddy stood and huffed away. "What the hell, dude?" she balked after him. He disappeared down the stair that led towards the Boy's Dormitory. "You're being fucking rude!" she called. Blaise appeared at the top of the stair and frowned at Ella.

"What's going on?" he asked, pointing towards where Teddy had walked by.

"Teddy's being fucking rude," snapped Ella, crossing her arms angrily. Blaise snickered through his nose.

"Maybe _he_ thinks that _you're_ being rude," chastised Blaise, coming towards her and sitting at her side.

"Am not!" protested Ella. "I was offering to help with Transfiguration so he doesn't slip further with homework. Then he got all snippy with me and huffed away." She leaned on Blaise's shoulder and sighed through her lips. He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

"Is class hard for you?" he asked suddenly.

Ella frowned. "I mean…" She thought for a moment. "Define 'hard'?" she said.

Blaise laughed. "Is it a _challenge_ for you? Is it difficult being a N.E.W.T student? Is _all_ of this difficult for you?"

Ella shrugged. "I guess?"

"Come now, make an effort," he reprimanded. "Really think. Is this hard?"

She puffed her bangs up off her forehead and shook her head unconsciously. What was 'hard'? What defined 'hard?' Was it the amount of work you put in? Was it how hard it was for you to grasp a concept? Was it your struggle? And how in the world was struggle measured, anyhow? You could graph it, of course, if you wanted, perhaps with axis X being time spent on a particular and axis Y being degree of difficulty…but wasn't the degree of difficulty highly subjective? Base ten was a good way to measure things, but what was the unit of measure? Maybe a 'stub,' because stubbing your toe was frustrating and angering and it hurt? If she used that as a base, then axis Y would be frustration, measured in stubs…

"Ella." Blaise snapped her off of her train of thought before she could even begin to board. "Is this hard?"

"I was _thinking_ about it," she said, annoyed. "Why can nobody ever let me think?" she groaned, throwing her head back. Blaise gave her a look. "I mean, there's a buttload of homework, and _that's_ really grossly annoying, but I wouldn't call that 'hard', just time-consuming…" A beat. "Look, I just…I guess the work is challenging, but I basically understand what the Professors are telling me and, if I don't, I seek out the answer in the library or from someone that does."

"Is that why you hang 'round with Longbottom?" he drawled.

Ella shrugged defensively. "He's the best student Herbologist in the school and—I don't know if you noticed—but I'm in foreign territory here, with _decently_ foreign herbs…" She snorted through her throat. "I really don't see why people don't like him. He's nice. He's a total friggin' spaz, sure, but he's pretty damn nice. Even Sluggy's taken notice of it!"

"And that's the only standard required for your precious time, I suppose?"

She adopted a rather scathing tone. "Oh, yes, being a nice person is _totally_ not enough to offer another person friendship," she snapped. "Life is just way too short to be selective about friends. That's why I'm so popular. If you're nice to me, I'm gonna be nice to you. The – goddamn – end." She then stood and began to pace. "I don't _get_ why that's hard! I don't _get_ why it's somehow embarrassing to ask for help! I don't _get_ why there's shame in not knowing something! There's shame in ignorance, sure, but shame in curiosity? Is there shame in seeking help from those who know how? That is Pride, and Pride is a sin!"

"'A sin?'" repeated Blaise in confusion.

"Yes, a sin! If you stain your soul with Pride, you'll ruin it!" Blaise suddenly snickered through his nose. "What is so funny?" she snapped.

"Well I wouldn't bring up the word 'sin' to Theo," he chortled. "I think he's still mad at you for last week."

"What the hell's there to be mad for?" demanded Ella, her hands on her hips in defiance.

"You invited him for a swim and then tried to give him a baptism in Hogwarts Lake—!"

"—Well _excuse me_ for trying to sneak that little fruit in to Heaven!" she screeched, throwing her hands in the air and then down by her side as fists, pacing the common room in her stocking feet. Blaise said nothing, but she could tell he was laughing inside. Fine, laugh—we'll see who's laughing in the end when she gets Pansy Parkinson kicked out of Hogwarts for good…

"You're in quite a mood today," he commented. Ella was about to snap something scathing, but Blaise all too quickly followed it with: "Hungry?" Her shoulders dropped to a normal position, not quite defeated, but not quite victorious, either. He raised his eyebrows in question. Ella realized that she had spent so much time working on her Potions that she'd skipped lunch.

"Yeah, probably," admitted Ella, quickly and quietly. Blaise nodded pointedly to the door.

"Let's get some food in you before there's nobody left alive." Ella couldn't help but laugh as he stood. She popped her shoes on and grabbed her bag; they walked up the stairs together and exited into the dungeons.

"Wait, where's Draco?" Ella asked, stopping in the middle of the corridor.

"He left after our last run-through of the playbook…" Blaise said. "I thought he went to see you in the library."

She shook her head. "No, I haven't seen him since Transfigurations this morning."

He frowned in confusion. "That's odd," he remarked. "Well, he's likely already at the Great Hall."

Draco was _not_ at the Great Hall. He didn't show up for food at all, and Ella was beginning to grow worried. This, of course, didn't stop her from eating her fill, as she had a fairly long night ahead of her. She knew she'd likely be flying quite a bit, as well, so she had a second slice of peanut butter pie to give her energy, and took an extra starberry tart from the tray and wrapped it up in a napkin for later. It was going to be a show, indeed, and she even inwardly noted just how wretched Pansy looked. She smiled at her and left the Great Hall as Vincent and Gregory were just sitting down. Tracey tried calling her back for help with Charms, but Ella said she had important matters that evening, and promised to help tomorrow after the game.

As soon as she was out of sight, in the tiny pocket between walking Aurors and browsing students, she shifted into her raven form and flew up the staircases, up the corridors, all the way to that storage room on the seventh floor. When she got in, she transformed back to her human form and locked the door behind her.

 _Damn, there's a lot of stuff in here_ , she thought to herself. Antiques, an old stuffed troll, broomsticks, _tons_ of furniture and clothes and books and toys…she wondered how deep the piles went, and how far back in history they could be traced. The light in that room was sort of a strangely eerie blue, almost like a haze. She stopped when she heard a rustle of fabric, and then a flap and cloud of dust appear from the other side of one of the mounds. Quickly, she took out her wand and crept silently towards the sound.

Around the pile of books and old record player, Ella found a tall, pale-haired figure, staring up at a weird-looking cabinet she'd not ever noticed before. She sighed in relief and put away her wand, which was enough of a sound to cause the object of her affection to jump and pull out his wand in defense. When Ella appeared in full view, Draco—oddly—didn't lower his wand. She frowned, seeing beads of sweat on his pale forehead.

"Draco, it's me," she stated matter-of-factly. She frowned, then waved her hand. "Can't you see me?" Draco shook his head, as if snapping himself out of a daze, and then quickly put his wand away, wiping his brow with his free hand. She came to his side. "What's the matter?" She tried taking his hand, but he quickly retracted, simply shaking his head and pacing away.

"I'm fine," he stated, avoiding her eyes. "What are you doing up here?" He was trying to sound casual.

Ella narrowed her eyes in suspicion, circling around on his flank slowly. "I was about to snag Professor Trelawney's sherry," she answered honestly. He turned his head and met her eyes, finally. He seemed relieved. "By that reaction, I'm guessing you were snooping around for it, too?" she asked with a grin. Draco's shoulders eased from their tense, and he managed a bit of a smile. She couldn't help but laugh a little. "Why didn't you say so? Come on. It's in the _eighth_ cabinet." She nodded pointedly towards the one he had been snooping in. "We'll call that one the thirteenth."

He glanced up at the cabinet and studied it with his eyes. "Why's this one the thirteenth?" he asked.

Ella shrugged. "Because it's the thirteenth one that I've discovered in here," she replied with a grin. "Well, _you_ ' _ve_ discovered this one. But we're together; maybe you don't mind sharing your discoveries with me." He smiled.

She rounded the way behind the cabinet and circled back the towering pile with a bunch of chairs, books, and that funny-looking tiara. The cabinet _used_ to be painted purple, she guessed, but now it was all chipped and worn from years of not being used…or perhaps _too much_ use. She opened the door and, right in plain view, an opaque bottle of Sherry, already half-drunk. Satisfied, she snatched it up, uncorked it, and took a swig. Ella turned on her heel and leaned on the cabinet, holding the bottle out to Draco, who grinned.

Draco took the bottle gently, stared at the label for a moment, swirled the Sherry in the bottle and took a whiff. _Honestly, it's not the time to be a snob_ , she inwardly chastised as he took a sip. He almost immediately cringed at the taste and then gave the bottle quickly back, painfully swallowing the small mouthful he'd taken. Ella laughed.

"There's an old bottle of cognac in here, too, but I honestly don't know who it belongs to," she said, drinking another mouthful. "I mean, this stuff isn't great, but the benefit is that she never knows if _you_ drank it, or if _she_ drank it."

He gave a crooked grin. "You never fail to surprise me," he commented.

She bowed low, her arms stretched out with much waving of the hands. "For your entertainment," she teased. Her heart leapt to her throat when he smiled at her; he came close and took the sherry from her hand before setting it on the nearest available surface. She was about to ask him what he was doing, but his eyes said it all. The next thing she knew, they were kissing.

Normally, when Draco kissed her, it was either very chaste and sweet or very hot and heavy. This time, it was an oddly nice combination of both. He pushed her up against the cabinet door with his body, his hands gently placed on her hips as he kissed her deeply. A moan rose from her throat, vibrating against his lips, which he seemed to rather enjoy. Her breathing shortened as he moved from her lips to her cheek, down her neck, his hands wandering shyly beneath her robes, slipping his fingers underneath her white blouse and sweater vest to touch her skin. She smiled, her fingers running up through his soft, fine hair.

Suddenly, she felt something…hard. It wasn't _that_ , though—it was round and really uncomfortably huge against her pelvis, and it wasn't getting any better. Her hand slipped beneath his robes, which he misinterpreted as her getting a little more than frisky, and reached into his pocket. Curious, she excavated the hard-round thing and brought it up to the light, causing Draco to stop and look. To Ella's shock, it was a green apple.

 _The smell of the Amortentia…_

Her mind raced as quickly as her heart was beating. Her skin suddenly felt oddly tight, as if it were the only thing keeping her from going everywhere at once. Other than the fact that Amortentia was a love-poison when orally administered, Ella knew this: Amortentia doesn't smell like the thing you're attracted to, but rather the thing that you should _look_ for. Its qualities are such that it, when used properly, can be a compass to finding the right way to your inner-most self, to the person that can bring out that in you. But that was impossible…wasn't it? There's no way that it could be Draco. She liked him—sure—and he was kind of an asshole—sure—but there can _surely_ not _really_ be such a thing as True Love. That was just some stupid concept invented by pious idealists, which was ultimately counterproductive to the biological need to breed as much as possible and keep the species going. No. There's no such thing as True Love. That's impossible. There's no such thing.

Ella suddenly realized that she'd been staring open-mouthed at that stupid apple for far too long. Draco was giving her an extremely puzzled look. She grinned nervously. She was trying to come up with some witty retort, but for the life of her, all she could think of was that stupid "Princess Bride" movie she saw when she was seven, with that stupid clergymen saying "mawwiage" in that stupid goddamn voice. By some miracle, Draco broke the tension by leaning in and taking a bite of the apple while it was still in her hand, which caused her to laugh out loud.

"Oh my God—" she cackled. "You're so goddamn great!" Her laughter bubbled any sort of bad thoughts away, and she felt relaxed again. She took a bite from the other side and smiled. _There, that was it; it's just an apple, there's no such thing as True Love, nobody is deciding anything for you…he just likes apples. That's it. Draco just likes apples._

Draco's hand came up and brushed a few curls behind her ear, his thumb tracing gently down her throat. Ella smiled and offered the apple back to him. He took another bite, as did Ella, who felt much more relaxed now that she'd found where he was hiding.

"Are you ready for the game tomorrow?" she asked. Draco tensed, then he shrugged with a smile. "That's not an answer." He seemed…off.

"I'm not worried about Chang. She's smart, but emotional."

"Hey, that's not our strategy, remember?" Draco rolled his eyes with a grin. "'A winner focuses on winning—'"

"'—And a loser focuses on beating a winner,'" Draco recited. "How could I forget?"

Ella couldn't help but laugh gently. "You can't say I wasn't an _awesome_ coach."

He conceded with a smile. "You and that bloody chicken," he said. She laughed out loud, feeling a little warmth in her cheeks, likely from the Sherry. She took another bite of the apple and tossed it back to him, which he caught with ease. She corked the Sherry and stuffed it in her bag. "Professor Trelawney won't notice it missing?"

Ella shook her head. "It's Friday, which means she's going to head to the Astronomy tower to sit in on the class, gazing into that stupid crystal ball of hers. As long as I have this back before sunrise, I can do what I like."

Draco's lips were smiling, but his brow was furrowed in question. "Do you keep tabs on everyone?" He was trying to sound casual, but there was something in his voice that made her suspect a hint of nervousness.

"I try to," Ella answered honestly.

A beat. "You know…everything about everyone?" he asked.

She sort of laughed, unsure of how to explain it properly. "Well…it's more like I notice things and remember them. I don't think it's spying or stalking or anything, just…" She stopped and sort of swayed in thought. Admittedly, she wasn't sure how to make it sound like she _wasn't_ spying or stalking, more just paying attention.

"Example?" he asked, gesturing with his hand.

Ella thought for a moment. "Well, I remember that Tracey loves pawpaw jelly, because if I sit next to her at breakfast, the jar will be half-gone by the time I've gotten there, so I'll not-likely get any. I remember that Daphne takes twice as long to do her hair as it does to brush her teeth because I notice how the toothpaste has dried on the mirror when she's done with the bathroom, so I try to wake up before her to use it. Marcus Belby loves chocolate because there's almost always some smeared on his shirt pocket. I know that Cormac McLaggen has a _huge_ boner for Hermione Granger because of the way Ron Weasley tightens his jaw whenever he's around. Lavender Brown's got a huge crush on Ron, though, which isn't surprising because of how damn desperate she is…and I know which boy every girl has a crush on because of who wants to buy love potions off of me."

"Love potions?" Draco repeated in confusion.

"I know! It's sick. I'd never touch the stuff, honestly. And manufacturing it? It's gross. I'll make you some Draught of Peace for a few galleons, or a sleeping potion to help you rest, and some have even had the nerve to ask me to brew them Felix Felicis…but I personally find the entire concept of Amortentia deplorable. I mean, really, why would you want to be with someone that doesn't like you back on their own?"

There were certainly quite a few thoughts racing behind Draco's eyes at that moment; he seemed to want to ask what she had noticed about him, but was too nervous to come out and say it.

"I've just noticed this about you, but…you seem to have better reflexes when you're really, _really_ tired." His eyes flickered, as if to ask 'what makes you say that?' "Remember the sopophorous beans on the first day of Potions with Sluggy? Remember how I was so annoyed at the instructions in the book that I didn't notice it flying right towards my face, and how you plucked it right out of the air, just like that? Like you were picking a peach?" He paused for a moment, then made that face he made when he was thinking 'huh, not bad.' Ella then heard the great clock tower chime seven. "Oh, no! We're late!" She scurried to the front of the room. "Come on!" Draco hurriedly followed.

"Ella, wait!" he called after her. She laughed a little as he came chasing. He was faster than her, so she flew down when she could afford to, transforming back to her human form just long enough to keep him interested in the chase.

"Come on, slowpoke! We have to get to the West Wing!"

"Ella, no! You can't go outside!" called Draco as they ran down the stairs and out the front door, exactly at 7:04 pm, exactly when the Aurors were changing their shifts. She laughed as he chased her west, towards the forest, towards those ruins which looked over Hagrid's hut. "ELLA!" he shouted after her as she sprinted out of the castle. "ELLA, NO!"

"Ella, yes!" she shouted back, ducking behind a pillar. Draco came frantically and grabbed her hard by the arm and pulled. "Ouch! Draco! What are you doing?!"

"We can't be out here!" he urged, panicked.

She ripped her arm away. "Let go! There's nothing that we can't handle that isn't already _inside_ the grounds. That barrier won't even let a flea in." She turned away and looked towards the forest; she heard Draco whimpering behind her. "Calm down, fraidy-cat. I know exactly what we're up against…" Her eyes wandered to the side gates. "We're in for a show tonight, and I'm sure of it. The moon will be rising in two minutes. I'm gonna crack this goddamn case if it's the last thing I do."

"Ella—!" Draco firmly turned her around and grabbed her by both shoulders. "Ella I'm _begging_ you—get inside!" In that moment, she saw something—a funny sort of desperation in his eyes, the beads of sweat, his…skin. She frowned as he tried to pull she saw…tears? In his eyes?

"What are you so afraid of?" A beat. "Do you know about the werewolf?" Draco tensed and let go. He began to back away, tears streaming down his face. "You know it's Pansy, don't you?" Ella demanded. "You kept this from me?! There's a dangerous beast here on the grounds and you let it run loose! How could you?!"

"Ella, please—!" Draco sobbed.

"YOU JERK!" She screamed, shoving him away. "Werewolves are dangerous, you idiot! They can't be trusted! I can't believe you! You were supposed to protect me! And you endanger me and everyone else by keeping it a secret?! What, you still have some sort of weird flame for her?!" A strange sort of anger bubbled and rose all along the skin on Ella's back. "Is _that_ why you ignored me all summer?! You were shacking up with her?! ANSWER ME, YOU PRICK!" A hard slap came across Draco's face, and he spun and fell to the ground. An Auror came rushing from the grounds, shouting for them to stop. It was the Metamorphagus, Tonks, who was—apparently—Draco's cousin. Ella came dashing up the field to meet her.

"You have to help me," urged Ella. "There's a werewolf on Hogwarts grounds and they're changing _tonight_ , I'm sure of it."

"Sweetheart, you need to get inside," soothed Tonks, who quickly put her arms around Ella and tried to rush her back to the castle. Ella dug her heels into the soft ground.

"No, you have to listen! There's a _werewolf_! It's going to be going into the forest at any moment!" She pointed behind her. "Ask Draco, he knows—" When she spun her head around to look, Draco was writhing on the ground in pain, groaning. "I didn't hit you that hard…" Tonks wrapped her arms around Ella and tried to pull her back towards the castle.

"Sweetie, we have to go—"

"—What's the matter with you?" she demanded towards Draco, shoving Tonks away. "Draco!"

Tonks came up quick behind her and tugged her back; Draco's eyes opened at the moon and Ella shrieked in fear when she saw they were bright green and glowing. His long spindly fingers swelled and curled to become claws, which ripped his Hogwarts robes away, an empty potion bottle falling out of his pocket and rolling down the hill. His back arched as his feet grew out of his polished shoes, his tie shredded to pieces as his neck and face grew longer and longer. "He'll be fine—he's taken his potion—"

"—I SCREWED UP THE POTION!" Ella screamed, knocking Tonks away and running to Draco's side. She whipped out her wand and cast in desperation: " _Homines teneatur!_ " Alright, so that was admittedly a stupid idea, but if he still had that bad potion in his stomach, maybe her magic could seep through and somehow enchant it while it was still in him? _"HOMINES TENEATUR!_ " she cast again, but nothing happened.

"ELLA GET AWAY!" shouted Tonks, who was running towards her now.

Ella pointed at Tonks with her finger and wordlessly, wandlessly cast the Cambiatus curse right at her heart, transforming the Auror into a chirping Blue Jay which flew away towards the school. She then pointed her wand at Draco again, who was thrashing and screaming on the ground, his white skin growing in to white fur. She backed away, shaking in fear, horrified with what she had done. He rose to his clawed feet, long and spindly, like a spider, shaking and afraid.

"Draco…?" she breathed. "Draco, it's me," she whimpered, her eyes welling. "Can't you see me?"

He looked to the moon again and threw his massive head back with a terrifying howl. Ella shrieked in terror and raised her wand. He threw his head towards her, his pale blue eyes now a terrifying green, his charming smile now a mouthful of sharp, drooling teeth.

"Draco, I don't want to hurt you, but I will!" she warned, taking a step back. He prowled towards her, his white fur gleaming in a ghost-like glare against the moonlight, a snarling growl creeping from his throat. "Snap out of it!" she shouted, nearly stumbling as she backed down the hill. His fangs were shining like knives, his eyes focused and unfocused all at once. The heckles on his back went straight up; he reared and Ella screamed, transforming into her animagus form just in time to escape his jaws.

His claws swiped at her as she flew away towards the forest, the light of the moon guiding her between the trees and over the bushes. Her wings carried her frantically away, and she transformed back to her human form when she reached a clearing.

"AwoooooOOOooo!" she howled, and Draco came running after, springing into her raven form again to keep him on the chase.

She ducked and flew, and flapped and ducked, and ducked and flew and flapped desperately, flying up the hill and transforming back at the base of the great fir tree. She howled again and flew straight up, through the branches, landing at a very sturdy limb and transforming back to her human form. Within seconds, Draco was at the base, clawing and snarling, jumping and barking rabidly. She reached into her bag and threw down the starberry tart at his head, which he hungrily tore apart and gobbled up.

"Okay," she breathed, panicked. "Okay. So. You were totally wrong," she said to herself. "Good job, you stupid slut—oh, God, _no_ , don't call yourself a slut!" She buried her nose in her clasped hands, precariously balancing herself on the thick tree limb as Draco tried desperately to climb up the trunk. "You're not a slut and you're not stupid. You're smart. You're calm. Yes. Calm down. Breathe. It's okay." Ella was trying desperately to remain as calm as she was telling herself to be, but it was becoming increasingly difficult the more and more he clawed at the tree's trunk. She looked down, her eyes full of fear, at the wild beast Draco had become, ready to eat her alive.

"Okay," she panted. "So, Draco's the werewolf," she whispered to herself. "That's shitty. But nobody will benefit unless _you_ keep—your—shit—together." She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the trunk of the tree, attempting to quell her racing heart to go down to a light canter. "All you have to do is keep him safe. You just have to keep him alive—and relatively unhurt—until sunrise. There. Easy! Easy-peasy! Just keep him safe, keep him chasing you, and keep _yourself_ alive long enough. And not get bit. Or scratched. Or found out by the Aurors. Hah! It'll be easy—!" The tree shook violently; Draco was now trying to ram the tree down, right in the spot at the trunk where he'd carved their names last year: "Draco + Ella". The tree shook again, the sleeping birds now fleeing from their nests in violent screams.

" _Fly away! Fly away! Werewolf! Werewolf!_ " she heard the birds scream. Birdsongs came to life in screeches as they flew in flocks over the canopy, far away to warn others. Draco was growing more and more ravenous at the base of the tree, clawing up and sliding down. Ella sat on the branch and held onto the trunk, shaking in fear.

"It's okay," she whimpered, trying desperately to comfort herself through her tears. "It's okay. You can do this. Yes you can, Ella. You're in your element: a forest. You grew up in one, you were schooled in one—nobody can touch you in a forest. Nobody." She was saying them in such a way that she was beginning to believe that she would, in fact, be fine. "I mean, it could be worse, right? It's not like there's any—"

 _Squea-honk_.

Ella's heart stopped. Her heart pounded so hard that she could hear it in her ear drums. Her body went stiff, and she felt icy cold. All of the birds went silent, and the air went stiff. Was Draco still there…?!

 _Squee-HONK_. " _Huehuehuehue_ …"

She began to tremble, her stomach tight and the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. Her bottom lip began to shake, and she slowly turned to meet horrible yellow eyes on a white face, sitting around the other branch around the trunk. Ella froze in fear, her heart feeling as if it might burst. She wanted to scream for help but she was too scared. The white skin, the fearsome red claws, the blood-red lips so swollen and big—they peeled back to reveal green fangs, dripping with poison.

" _Huehuehuehue…_ "

Its head tilted around, its bones cracking as it crept its way slowly towards her, pulling out its great yellow mallet in one clawed hand, the other latching onto the tree's trunk with the ferocity of a Snallygaster. Ella was paralyzed. Its red nose _squea-honked_ again. She whipped out her wand, her hand shaking violently in fear. The creature unhinged its massive jaw, hellfire in its demonic eyes and flaming red hair.

"WhO's tHe BiRTHDaY GIRL!?"

Ella screamed and fell off the branch and transfigured herself into her raven form and flew as fast as she could back to the castle. She zoomed in through first open window she saw and flapped through, twisting through the corridors, flapping down through the stairwells and into the dungeon. She transformed back and ran as fast as her legs would carry her to the portrait, where she screamed "SANCTITY! SANCTITY!" as she beat on it with her fists until it opened.

The Slytherin common room swung open and she dashed inside and slammed the door hard behind her, her back against it as if to keep the beast away. She then had an even more fearful thought, and quickly patted herself down from pocket to pocket. Terrified, Ella whistled. Nothing. She whistled again, looked around, and realized what she had done.

"Ella?" Teddy came around the corner with a book in his hand. "What's the matter with you?"

"My _wand_!" she gasped. "I've lost my wand!"

"Wait, what—?" Teddy said, setting his book down and coming towards her. "How does a witch _lose_ her wand?"

"I lost my wand! I lost my wand!" Ella shrieked at the top of her lungs. Teddy's hands came on Ella's shoulders, shaking her.

"Ella, calm down!" shouted Teddy.

"DON'T SHOUT AT ME!" Ella screamed. "I CAN SCREAM LOUDER THAN YOU!"

"What the bloody hell's going on?" came Blaise's voice. They both looked to the right to see him, dressed in his Slytherin quidditch jersey, broomstick in hand, looking extremely concerned.

Ella's hands flew out in front of her, one grabbing Blaise by the jersey front and the other grabbing Teddy by the tie. She pulled them close and whispered desperately: "I—need—your—help."

Before they could protest, Ella dragged them both out of the common room and explained everything as they rushed towards the greenhouses. The plan was to exit through there and head towards Hagrid's Hut, avoiding Aurors on the way as well as they could. It was lucky that they were three sneaky Slytherins and not three clumsy Gryffindors, for they—with their combined skills—managed to get to the greenhouse's exit just as the tale was finished.

"Hold on—" protested Blaise, pressing himself against the wall. " _That's_ what Professor Snape's been having you to for extra points?"

"It's because of his father," said Teddy, his thin face now white.

Ella guffawed. "What in the world does _he_ have to do with it?"

"The Dark Lord…" breathed Teddy, the night air now cold enough to make his breath visible. "…Fenrir Greyback—"

"—The werewolf!" Blaise gasped. "He's been terrorizing London."

"Slow down," whispered Ella. "Teddy, who is Fenrir Greyback?"

"The Dark Lord's attack wolf," spat Teddy. "When a Death Eater displeases him or fails him, he has Fenrir Greyback bite their children as punishment."

"I'm sure you're real _proud_ to be in cahoots with the Dark Lord now, aren't you?" sneered Blaise. "Now that it's your friend—"

"—It's not my fault that Lucius Malfoy is a terrible Death Eater!"

"Stop it, both of you!" admonished Ella, appalled that they were even having this conversation. "Draco needs _help,_ and we—"

"—We need to get Professor Snape," argued Teddy.

"We are _not_ doing that," Ella snapped. "Not _only_ would he kill me for deliberately screwing up the Wolfsbane potion, but I could get expelled for this _—_ "

"— _That's_ where your head's at?" Blaise demanded. "Your boyfriend's a bloody half-breed now—"

"—Don't call him that!" Ella barked, shoving him away. "Are you jerks going to help me or not?!" There was a very tense pause, and Teddy and Blaise were looking at each other in question. "Seriously?!" she whispered in shock. "I wouldn't think _twice_ to help either of you, and you're—"

"This isn't Transfigurations homework, Ella, this is _the Forbidden Forest._ At _night._ With a _werewolf._ "

"This is not 'a werewolf,'" Ella argued. "This is Draco. He's your friend. More importantly, _I'm_ your friend, and I'm asking—begging—for your help." She took Teddy's hands. " _Please_ help me. Please help me get my wand back. Please? _Please_?" To her horror, tears were streaming down her face. " _Please_?" she sobbed.

"Where is he?" Blaise asked after a moment of listening to Ella's tears. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "Do you have a plan?"

"I think I know where my wand is," she confessed, "but I don't know where Draco is. He was by the fir tree. I flew away as soon as I saw the monster—"

"—It wasn't a monster, it was a _boggart_ —"

"—What the hell's a boggart?"

"It's a shapeshifter, Ella," said Teddy. "It changes its form to what a person fears the most."

"Although I will say that it's odd to find one in the forest," commented Blaise. "They like to hide in closets or in old attics."

"Ten galleons says it's that same bloody boggart that Professor Lupin had that went and escaped," Teddy replied, shaking his head.

"Focus!" whispered Ella. "We have to move," she said, looking towards the forest. A cloud then covered the moon, causing the darkness to grow even more intense. She took Blaise's hand in her right and Teddy's in the left. Her eyes flashed, and she transfigured her eyes to their raven's form. "Keep up. Ravens can see in the dark." And she dashed forward, her friends stumbling next to her, straight into the forest.

"You _do_ have a plan, don't you?" whispered Blaise once they reached the forest floor, traipsing through the eerie blue mist.

"Survive," said Ella.

"That's not much of a plan," he said, dryly.

"It's all I've got," she said, following the path up the hill, listening intently for any birdsongs that might be being sung.

"You're defenseless without your wand," said Teddy. "We had best find that first."

"I can still change," she offered, her raven eyes wandering through the trees.

"Let's make a plan," said Blaise lowly, his palm rather sweaty. "What are our assets?"

"You're holding a broomstick," deadpanned Ella. "That means two of us can fly."

"And what am I supposed to do?" demanded Teddy. "Sit around and knit?"

"No, I need your magic," she said. "I need you to protect us while we distract him."

"How am I supposed to protect you against a werewolf? We only learned how to identify it!"

"Teddy, listen—" said Ella, "—you've known Draco the longest. You were kids together. Right? You know Draco. You know what he'll do when he's scared—"

"—He's not Draco anymore, he's the _werewolf_ —"

"—He is _still in there_ —!"

"—If he _was_ you wouldn't need our help!" spat Teddy. "He's become wild. He'll kill you if given the chance—"

"—He'll _get_ killed out here and I can't let that happen!" There was a tense pause between the three of them. "I may not know what's going on in his head right now, but I do know _animals_. The way he reared, the way he was creeping…it wasn't anger-based or territorial behavior. He was scared. He thought his life might be threatened so he attacked the first thing he saw: me." Her voice cracked. Had she any time to think, she might have let that last bit of her own sentence cause her some great pain, like a stab or a cut to her insides. Ella didn't have time to think about that, though; she had a job to do. Her friends looked at each other in question.

"Theo's right. He's an animal…" A sort of light went off in Blaise's eyes, flickering for a moment in the blue-black darkness. "What did we learn in Care of Magical Creatures about scared animals? If he's attacking out of fear," began Blaise, "then maybe we can calm him?"

"You're mad," gasped Teddy. They reached the base of the fir tree, and Draco was nowhere to be seen, nor was the monster. Ella whistled, and she heard the leaves rustle. Blaise and Teddy tensed. Ella whistled again, and her wand came flying into her hand, unscathed, where it had been stuck in the branches of the fir tree. She let out a great sigh of relief to feel it in her hand, that beautiful blackthorn wand that was a part of her.

" _Lumos_ ," she cast, and the tip of her wand glowed faintly with a gentle light. She held it up to the tree; it was marred terribly, and the place where their names were carved, "Draco + Ella", had been scratched away. She let out a sob, and the light on her wand went out.

"Ella," said Blaise, his hand on her shoulder. "Do you have any Draught of Peace in that bag of tricks of yours? Maybe powdered root of asphodel? Something? Anything?"

She sniffed back her tears and thought for a moment. A light went off in Ella's eyes. She dug in her bag and grinned with glee when she found the right tube. "'Anything', indeed!"

"What's that?" Teddy asked.

"Polvosueño," said Ella with a grin. "I just hope it works."

"An invention of yours?" Ella nodded. "Then, of course it will." Ella smiled.

A plan was set in motion. Theo set down the path and cast _lumos_ in tiny orbs that led up the hill to guide Blaise's way. Ella put her bag down by the fir tree, and poured all of the blue-black powder into her left hand, and then covered her nose and mouth with her right. Her wand was tucked safely behind her ear, and she was ready. She had to blow as much of it in Draco's face as she could, but there would be a good chance that he might bite or maul her. He'd be coming up the hill, fast and furious, and if there was a breeze or anything else then he'd simply be lunging straight for her with nothing between them. It didn't matter. If anyone was dying tonight, it was going to be her, not her friends. Blaise mounted his broomstick and flew down.

" _Protego Totalum_ ," cast Teddy in a cloud over the fir tree. Ella nodded, signaling that she was ready. Teddy whistled to Blaise, who Ella could barely see hovering in the forest below.

"AawwWOOOOOOoooWWOOOOOO!" Blaise howled from the forest floor. "AaaWOOOOO!" he howled again. The birds to the west were chirping, screeching, and they were flying from the canopies in fear. "AaaawwOOOOOOOooOOO!" Ella's heart began to pound; she dug her heels into the soft ground.

"I hear him!" said Teddy. "He's coming. Get ready!" He knelt behind another nearby tree, his wand ready to cast any defensive—or offensive—spell he could think of. " _Lumos_ ," he cast to be an orb over Ella's head. The birds in the trees were going mad, and quicker than she could blink, Blaise flew straight over and straight up the fir tree.

All at once, she saw Draco, galloping up the hill on all fours, growling and snarling, his white fur standing on end. He leapt up, his claws extended, mouth open, and Ella opened her palm. With a great huff and puff, Ella blew all of the powder in her palm straight into his mouth. It all went black.

" _Ella."_

 _What…?_

" _Ella, don't doddle!"_

 _Mama…?_ She looked around. It felt warm and cold all at once, with a strange sort of euphoria in every breath. The forest was there, and from where she was standing, she could see the greenhouse and the Hippogriff pen. She took a step forward and saw glimpse of the purple front door of her childhood home. Her mother was there, all in black, with a worn yet clean striped apron. She smiled.

" _Ella, my sunflower, you've played the day away! It's time to come inside!"_ she called. She was so beautiful. Though she was far away, Ella could still see every detail; her slick black hair, her fair skin, the flour on her apron, and her red shoes.

 _Is this... I'm in the wheat field. The sun's setting. I'm back in Albany…I'm at Nana's house… It's so beautiful here. I feel so happy… Am I dead? That's Mama, standing in the doorway… Should I go?_

" _What are you doing? Come inside."_

Ella took a step backwards. _"No…"_

" _What do you mean, 'no?' It's time to come in."_ Mama chastised. She nodded pointedly inside.

" _No. It can't be time. I'm not done yet."_

" _Ellie." That's Daddy. I hear him. "Listen to your mom. It's time to come in."_

Panic filled her heart. _No_. _I can't be dead. Not yet_. She backed away. Her mother came towards her, a stern look on her face. _"I can't! I can't come in! I'm not done yet!"_ She turned on her heel and ran away, through the wheat field, up behind the greenhouse, up to the forest, her mother screaming at her from the house. _"I can't be here! I have to save Draco!"_

"AAACK!"

Ella woke with a start, sopping wet, with Teddy and Blaise standing over her. Teddy smiled. "See? I told you she wasn't dead."

"Great. Now we get to listen to her whine about her getting her hair wet," Blaise deadpanned.

"What…?" Ella looked around, confused. "What happened?" She noticed Draco, fast asleep, sleeping peacefully in a crumpled heap beside her.

Blaise pointed at the tree. "You blew so much of that stuff that you both fell asleep. It was effing hilarious."

"I was…" The Polvosueño had caused that vision…that dream. But she was still lucid? How had that happened? She shook off the last of her sleepiness, her face and hair now freezing cold. "It's going to be freezing in a minute," she commented.

"Maybe we could camp out here?" offered Teddy. "I've always wanted to try camping."

"I'm not sleeping on the ground!" gasped Blaise. "I've got Quidditch tomorrow!"

"How's there going to be Quidditch when your Seeker's a bloody werewolf?"

"Stop it, both of you!" Ella admonished. "Blaise, you can go back to the castle if you want, but I'm not leaving." Draco snored, and his paws began running in place. It'd honestly seem adorable, had it been under literally any other circumstance.

"I can't just leave the two of you out here alone," he argued. "There's much more than werewolves in this place…"

"The only werewolf in the forest is passed out," said Ella, looking at Draco's sleeping form.

"Is there a way to get him inside?" asked Blaise. "Perhaps we _should_ tell Professor Snape."

"I do _not_ want to tell Professor Snape—"

"Well what choice do we have?"

"Camping," said Teddy, whipping out his wand. "Watch this!" With a few waves of his wand and a couple of spells she hadn't ever heard of before, he fashioned a shelter from fallen branches nearby, directly beneath the fir tree. " _Bombarda_ ," he cast at the soft ground, and a hole formed. He summoned some more twigs and branches, and then cast " _Incendio!_ " to create a warm fire. Soon the four of them were warmed in his house of twigs.

"How did you do that?" asked Blaise, not wanting to admit how impressed he was.

"When I was little," he said, "I used to do the same thing with my building blocks."

Ella threw herself into Teddy's arms and began wailing hysterically. Neither of her friends were quite sure of what to do, but it seemed as if the ruckus would—at least—keep the other animals at bay. After quite some excessive sobbing, Ella finally calmed herself enough to sit by herself.

"I screwed up," she said. "I screwed up so bad."

"I'll say," said Teddy. "Messing with someone's potions, lying to Professor Snape, leaving Hogwarts castle after hours, transfiguring an Auror into a Blue Jay using a curse that Snape made you promise to never use again, and then dragging _us_ into this whole mess?"

"Not helping," said Blaise dryly. He came and sat next to her, setting his broom in the corner behind them. "Ella, everyone's entitled to mistakes…" He paused. "But…you're my friend. And Slytherins stick together." He gave Teddy a look. Her friend rolled his eyes and eventually nodded.

"Yes. Slytherins stick together. More importantly," he said, shifting in his spot by the fire. "Slytherins do what must be done. What must be done is keeping ourselves alive at this point…" He then looked to Draco. "I just…" He sighed. "I mean, I guess we all saw this coming…"

"What do you mean?" asked Blaise.

"Well…" He shifted, then seemed rather green in the face when he looked at Draco. Ella couldn't hear his thoughts; she couldn't concentrate. "Lucius Malfoy isn't exactly the best Death Eater in the world. In fact, he's failed the Dark Lord many times." Blaise was about to say something scathing, but Ella stopped him by putting her hand over his. She knew when her friends were saying things that were difficult to say, you shut up and let them say it. "It's just…" Teddy sighed deeply. "The Malfoys were supposed to be the best of us. They had the highest status in the country, and now look at them." Ella recalled the headline in The Daily Prophet: "Fallen From Grace."

Blaise couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "Wake up, Theo," he said. "The Dark Lord doesn't care about any of us. He only cares about one thing: power. All we can do is keep our heads down and hope to stay out of his wrath."

"But The Dark Lord has promised us all a better life!" argued Teddy. "Aren't you tired of living in the shadows? Aren't you tired of hiding? We shouldn't be hiding from the Muggles." He looked directly at Ella. "And we shouldn't _fear_ them, either."

"Guys, we're camping," said Ella. She reached into her bag. "Let's not argue." She pulled out Professor Trelawney's sherry. "I know this is awful, but can we try to make the best of it?" Both Blaise and Teddy smiled, then nodded.

Before long, the sherry was gone, and they were exchanging stories by the firelight. Ella was the first to fall asleep, but also the first to wake up, right at 5 am, like always. The sun was not yet up. She stretched and stepped out of the shelter, feeling horribly stiff. The twilight mist was truly beautiful, carpeting the forest floor. Blaise stepped up to join her outside, his broomstick in hand.

"Did I wake you?" she whispered.

"No, I always wake up early," he said. "I'm going back to the dormitory. If I fly around from the Quidditch pitch, maybe they'll think I simply got up before dawn to warm up for the game."

"Good thinking," Ella replied with a grin.

"I'll go straight to Draco's dorm and bring his Quidditch uniform. If we can get _him_ into his equipment, too, then maybe nobody will suspect…?"

Ella's arms opened to bring Blaise into a tight embrace, but he quickly put his hand on her forehead.

"No, no, dear. I'm British," he said. "We only show affection to dogs and horses." Ella snorted. She then patted him on the shoulder, which he accepted. He mounted his broom and flew away. She took in a deep breath in and breathed out. There. It was fine. They had survived the night…and Teddy got to go camping for the first time. Ella promised herself that, next summer, she'd invite Teddy out for a _real_ camping trip, and they could make s'mores together by a fire.

"Ella?" She turned around to see Teddy stirring. She peeked her head back in the shelter. "What time is it?"

"A little after five," she answered. "The sun's not yet up." He stretched. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Better than I expected," he admitted with a laugh.

She sat next to him. It was a little tense, as neither quite knew what to say, but Ella managed to break the silence first. "Next summer," she said, "you and I are going to go camping for real. We'll get a big tent, we'll roast marshmallows on the fire, and we'll go fishing…all of the fun camping stuff you've never done before, we're gonna do. Damn right, we will," she said. A beat. "Can we hug?"

Slowly, he grinned with those adorable rabbit teeth. "Sure." Ella smiled with glee and wrapped her arms around her friend so tight that she heard his back pop. "Oh my _Lord_ that felt amazing!" he sighed, causing Ella to laugh heartily. They then stopped and looked over to see Draco stirring as well. "Uh-oh," he said, standing quickly and drawing out his wand.

"Go," said Ella. "Run back to the castle." She tugged him by the arm out of the shelter. "It'll be sunrise before you know it. I can do this."

"But Ella—"

"Trust me," she said. "Polvosueño makes you really groggy. It'll take him forever to wake up. You get back to the castle. Make up some excuse. You were out for a morning walk."

Hesitantly, Teddy nodded, and then ran through the forest, back to Hogwarts. Ella went back in the shelter and grabbed her bag. She took her robes and pulled them over her shoulders, then pulled out her wand. Draco was stirring slowly. She knelt at his side, wanting nothing more than to brush his fur back, to rub his ears and tell him everything would be alright.

She looked at him from top to bottom. His head was enormous, and his paws dwarfed her hands. He was long and spindly and rather terrifying, but to see him sleeping so peacefully made her feel, at least, a little better…not that it mattered. She'd done a terrible thing, and there was no getting around it. Upon the realization, of course, that she actually was feeling such deep remorse made her realize one thing: she wasn't a psychopath after all.

The sun began to rise, and Ella felt its warmth on her back. She stepped outside to view the spectacle, only to hear cracking bones and slow-building screams when the rays hit Draco's body. She looked away, a deep throbbing pain in her chest, like her heart cracking from some great pressure. She heard his howls turn into screams, then moans, then—finally—a soft sobbing. Tears welled in Ella's eyes, and the full horror of her actions hit her like a curse.

Finally, she swallowed her tears, put on a smile, and walked towards the entrance of their tiny house of sticks. She peeked in and saw Draco, naked, crying in a ball on the forest floor. He seemed so small, so helpless…she then realized that this must be what he had been talking about the night of their anniversary. 'Dangerous things going on?' Of course. _This_ must have been what he was talking about. Oh, God, no wonder he was so ashamed to say it out loud. Ella wanted to crawl under a stump and die.

"Draco—?" He quickly recoiled to the back of the hut, in the shadows where he couldn't be seen. She stepped inside. "Draco, it's me—"

"GO AWAY!" he shouted. His voice was forceful as the wind, but Ella didn't budge. "I SAID GO AWAY!"

Tears streamed down her face as she slid her robe off and offered it to him, keeping her eyes to the ground. He snatched it up and covered himself. She took a step towards him, and he pitched a hard stone directly at her knees, which knocked her to the ground.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" he screamed again before dissolving into sobs.

Ella looked down; her stocking was scratched open, now, and blood was pooling at the open gash on her knee. She tried to stand, but failed. Her breath stifled as she crawled closer. She was trying as hard as she could to be strong, but seeing him cry wasn't making it easy.

"Get away from me, Ella…" he sobbed, his face buried in his folded arms and knees.

"I'm not leaving you," she said, her voice shaking.

"Go away," he wept, a tinge of his emotions tickling at the back of her mind. She felt him; he was scared, humiliated, angry…and Ella couldn't blame him for any of it. She sniffed back her own tears and sat next to him, afraid to touch him. The throbbing in her knee was becoming more and more painful by the moment.

"Is this what you were afraid to tell me?" she asked. "Is this what was so hard for you to say?" Draco's breathing slowed. He wiped his eyes and turned his head away. "I made you promise me that you'd ask me for help when—"

"YOU WERE HELPING!" he roared, turning his bloodshot gaze to her. "YOU WERE HELPING AND YOU FUCKED IT UP! I TRUSTED YOU! HOW COULD YOU?!"

Ella was stunned. "I-I…" She burst into tears. "I'm sorry…" she whispered. "I'm so sorry..." She doubled over in sobs, the salt of her own tears stinging the open wound on her knee. "I screwed up so bad. I'm so sorry." There was enough adrenaline in her system to let her stand, albiet shakily. "I don't deserve to…" She choked on her words. "I'm so sorry, Draco." And she limped away, into the forest...

* * *

Alright, so this is the longest chapter I've written here, a whopping 11k+ words! I think a few things warrant explanation.

There's this huge fan theory out there that Draco Malfoy is a werewolf. SuperCarlinBrothers did a REALLY cool YouTube video on it, actually! Basically, in the books, we never actually SEE Draco with a Dark Mark. We also know that the threat of a werewolf bite from Fenrir Greyback is a prevalent threat, but we never really see, on screen, the Malfoys get punished for their EPIC screw-ups. And remember when, in Borgin & Burkes, Draco shows his arm to Borgin and says "Fenrir Greyback is a close friend and he wouldn't have to have him pay a visit" in the beginning of the Half-blood Prince? What if it wasn't a Dark Mark, but a werewolf bite? There's just LOTS of evidence that Draco Malfoy is a werewolf in the books, and I frankly couldn't resist. And don't you think it further adds to why the Malfoys ultimately turned on Voldemort in the end? Because, y'know, their only son and sole heir was bitten by a FUKKEN WEREWOLF?

Let's remember how the wizarding community treats lycanthropy: HORRIBLY. It's this awful disease that's riddled with shame, and someone like Draco, who is _especially_ proud of his Pureblooded heritage, would feel nothing but disdain and humiliation for this punishment. Now you guys know a HUGE plot point: why Ella works tirelessly at St. Mungo's, why Draco shows up on her doorstep...the plot thickens. But this is basically the worst year of Draco's life. And Ella feels awful.

As always, thank you SO MUCH to my readers HeartofAspen, SabrinaJasmine, and Pancakestack...more to come soon!


	17. Chapter 17

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Harry 16**

* * *

"Nothing," Hermione said, wiping snow from her wild hair. "Absolutely no reference to a 'Half-Blood Prince' anywhere!"

"Zamora knows who it belongs to," Ron then offered, which caused both Harry and Hermione to visibly tense; Harry out of fear, Hermione out of rage. "Ginny says she'll tell you anything if you ask her nicely," he said, shrugging.

"The _last_ thing I am doing is going to Ella Zamora for help!" Hermione whispered harshly, her face now bright red and swollen. "So _what_ if she knows? If she _does_ know, then so what? If _she_ can learn, then so – can – I. And I frankly couldn't care less if she knows what I don't."

Hermione stomped hard with each word and stormed inside The Three Broomsitcks and slammed the door behind her. Harry gave Ron a tired look.

"How do you even know that she knows?" Harry sighed.

"Well, 'Sectumsempra'," said Ron. "Remember lunch after Potions on the first day?"

Harry did remember. She had used Crabbe to distract Harry so that she could snatch the textbook from the table without him knowing. He remembered the way she sort of stalled when she found a certain page, and then said: 'Sectumsempra?' When Harry looked, he saw it was a spell, that was 'for enemies.'

"She asked where you got it."

"Yeah," Harry agreed.

"Kind of like it was hidden, right? Like nobody was supposed to find it?" He shrugged. "Growing up in a big house, you learn a thing or two about hiding things and how…" Ron then sort of laughed. "I mean, it's kind of obvious, innit? The Half-Blood Prince is probably some old relative of hers. One of the Spellings."

Harry thought for a moment. He recalled how Zamora handed the book back with a rather chilling smile and said 'game on.' Either way, Zamora knew and had chosen to not rat Harry out to Professor Slughorn about him cheating, in spite of the fact of her greeting him in the corridor with the moniker 'Cheating Cheater who Cheats' every time they passed one another.

"It's a brilliant theory, Ron," Harry admitted, "but there's one problem: it's the _Half_ -Blood Prince. Not the Pureblood Prince. I don't think Ella Zamora's got any half-blood relatives that she'd be openly willing to talk about." Ron nodded with a shrug. "But best not bring it up to Hermione again."

Ron nodded. "Right."

The Three Broomsticks was crowded with as much gossip as there was warmth. The first winter's snow had fallen over Hogwarts and all were out enjoying it. The lake was not yet safely frozen over, however, so the Slytherins were not out ice skating, as they seem to have all taken a liking to. Instead, the Dueling Club, captained by Zamora, was taking over Hogsmeade.

The snowman building contest – which had been announced some weeks before for the afternoon of the first winter's snow – was now in full swing, and the Dueling Club was hosting. The entire club was out, taking sign-up sheets around and serving hot chocolate with peppermint marshmallows at the hosting stand, which was all built out of snow, just outside. Considering the success of the Dueling Club's fundraisers in the past, it was no surprise that this one had a grand turnout. The prizes were always good, too, and this year there were gift baskets full of fudge, toys, warm winter clothes, and more, all sponsored by shops from here to Diagon Alley. The Frog Choir was even there, with Professor Flitwick, taking donations from the patrons to help raise money for activities.

Harry was knocked a bit to the side with a coconut snowball to the face, which dissipated in an annoying ball of confetti all throughout his hair. It was Miles Bletchley, Slytherin's Keeper, who was manning the Dueling Club's registration booth at the counter. "Team Zamora, Potter!" he laughed, gesturing to the button on his jersey. Ron quickly put his arm around Harry's shoulder and kept them walking.

Not including the entirety of Slytherin House, all had rallied behind Zamora, wearing 'Team Zamora' buttons on their robes, to show solidarity in the fact that Harry was now her branded target. Making Professor Slughorn believe he was a genius came at the cost of being the enemy of the most popular Witch in Hogwarts. Fortunately, it had only been an onslaught of very odd pranks instead of anything truly sinister: someone had enchanted his Transfigurations textbook to—when opened—spew out an ocean of ping-pong balls, and another had hexed his socks to be shocking pink whenever they hit the sunlight. Harry learned later that Zamora's motto when it came to pranks was: 'Confuse, don't abuse.'

Slughorn was speaking with the barkeep about something or other, and Harry quickly found a table in the back with Hermione, who had—for some reason—chosen a table near where Zamora and Malfoy were. Ron sat next to Harry, and Hermione ordered three butterbeers with some ginger in hers. Harry glanced over and noticed that Malfoy was nursing a butterbeer of his own, and Zamora had a hot chocolate piled high with marshmallows and whipped cream, which she was stirring with a candy cane. She and Malfoy were having some sort of lovey-dovey conversation, and when she stopped stirring to take his hand, the candy cane kept on turning in its cup.

"Look at her left hand," whispered Hermione. "She's wearing his ring!"

Harry glanced over. "How do you know it's his?" he asked.

"Because _he's_ not wearing it—honestly!" she whispered harshly. Harry hadn't ever put much thought into what kind of jewelry Malfoy wore.

Ron rolled his eyes. "They're likely betrothed already," he stated, matter-of-factly, which caused Hermione to give a rather disgusted look. "'S'not like I like or anything," he quickly said. "But fact of the matter is that Malfoy's rich, and so's she, and they're both Purebloods, so…" Ron shrugged again. "Tell you the truth her granny's not so keen on it, either." He leaned in and whispered. "She came to the Burrow near the end of the summer and asked about _Percy._ For _Ella_."

"What?" Harry whispered in shock. Hermione recoiled in disgust. Ron's stuffy older brother, _Percy_ , marry Ella? The thought was just so…gross. It was far less sinister of an idea, though, than Malfoy and Zamora together. Harry guessed that those two would give birth to jackals.

"Yeah, and she tried to _pay us_ to consider her as a bride! It wasn't even a dowry, just a 'gift.' Mum and dad refused the money, o' course, but it's slimy. Only reason she's doing it is because of Bill and Fleur."

"Arranged marriages?" whispered Hermione, aghast. "In this day and age? That's barbaric! As little as I care for Ella Zamora, I care even less for the thought of her just being shipped off like she were cattle!"

"It's just what wealthy Pureblooded gits like them do, alright?"

"What do Bill and Fleur have to do with Zamora's grandmother?" Harry asked.

"Turns out," Ron began, "Fleur Delacour is Zamora's cousin. Her granny's sister is Fleur's granny."

"And I expect she's been 'round the Burrow a lot now?" Hermione whispered harshly, a tinge of jealousy in her voice.

"Her granny's rich and has all these hotels and casinos out in Monaco," Ron explained further, ignoring Hermione. "She wants to 'keep eet in ze fam-eel-eey,' whatever that bloody means…" Harry snickered at Ron's horribly mocking French accent. "Oh, bloody hell," he cursed, noticing Ginny and Dean in the corner. Harry's stomach went a bit tight. The butterbeers arrived at their table. Hermione looked over.

"Oh, Ron, they're just holding hands…" Dean leaned in and kissed Ginny. Harry quickly distracted himself by looking at Slughorn, waiting to be noticed by him. "…And snogging." A knot tied itself in Harry's stomach.

"I'd like to leave," said Ron, straight-faced.

"What?" gasped Hermione. "You can't be serious."

"That happens to be my _sister_!" Ron insisted.

"So? If she looked over here and saw _you_ snogging _me_ you think she'd want to get up and leave?" Professor Slughorn was making his way slowly towards them, but stopped to talk to Marcus Belby for a moment, a Ravenclaw 7th year.

Professor Flitwick came over to Malfoy and Zamora, a clipboard in his hand. "Alright, Miss Zamora, the contest will be under way shortly!" he announced. "You'd best get out there soon." He glanced at the parchment through his spectacles. "First the announcement, then you'll chime the starting charm with some brilliant red-and-green sparks. Students will have precisely two hours to construct their creations, during which time the Frog Choir will perform. And then judging will commence, during which time we thank our sponsors and, finally, announce the winner and hand out prizes. Are you ready?"

She glanced at the clock. "I've twenty minutes, Professor, and I fully trust the Choir and the Dueling Club to carry on fine while I finish my hot chocolate."

Professor Flitwick balked when he saw her mug "Is that _double cream_ in that hot chocolate? You know what dairy does to the voice!" he admonished. "Tea, Zamora! Tea with lemon before performances!"

Malfoy grinned, the slimy git. "Come, come, Professor—one hot chocolate certainly can't do the beautiful voice of Ella Zamora much harm. And, if by some tragedy, her voice is anything other than spectacular, you may hold me accountable for insisting."

She giggled a bit. "It's true, he _did_ insist," she agreed.

"Well she _does_ have a spectacular voice," admitted Professor Flitwick with a shake of his head. "Very well, Zamora, very well… By the way, I don't think I ever told you how much we all enjoyed your performance the other day. That song was so…fun. And beautiful – so full of emotion! And you performed it so passionately."

Zamora looked down with a bit of a blushing smile. "Actually, Professor, I can't take the credit for that one…" She looked to Malfoy. "To tell you the truth, it was Draco was the one that wrote that song." Malfoy looked as shocked as Harry felt. His gray eyes went wide as dinner plates, and his pale face went whiter than Harry thought possible. "But it's meant to be performed as a duet. I tried my best, of course, but…it's still meant to be a duet. I couldn't even do the whole performance on my own. There's a whole set of counterpointed lyrics and melody that go with it on the bridge!"

"Really?" gasped Professor Flitwick, who looked and sounded very impressed indeed. "Why, Mister Malfoy! I hadn't any idea you were musically inclined!"

"Oh, surely you aren't serious, Professor. Why, Draco's far more talented than I. He's been writing music since he was seven years old. Did you know that? He let me see some of his sheet music from his childhood, and then he played the organ for me. Have you ever been to Malfoy Manor? Well, it's spectacular, I'll tell you that. They've got snow-white peacocks just wandering around the grounds, and a hedge rose maze the size of a Quidditch Pitch. The organ – it's beautiful, I've only ever seen its equal at church in Monaco – was a gift from some Duke for some service done. I swear, when he played, I felt the earth move."

Harry quickly swallowed some of his butterbeer to prevent any sort of sick that was going to spew out from how she was talking. And Malfoy, _musical_? He did write 'Weasley is our King' within hours of Ron being announced Keeper, but it hadn't occurred to Harry that Malfoy would ever use any sort of creative gift for good.

"You simply must come to the Choir room sometime and entertain us with your talents! There _is_ an old organ, in the orchestra room, that's in need of repair…but we do have a piano, Mister Malfoy. You could play that until we repair the organ! Now that I know someone will play that old thing…"

Malfoy looked away. "I'm afraid that's not quite my cup of tea, Professor," he said, sounding almost shy.

"Draco's rather shy, but we'll get him out of his shell eventually, Professor," Harry heard Zamora say. _Malfoy, shy?_ They said a few more things, but Harry was eyeing for where Professor Slughorn went. He noticed Professor Flitwick leave, and then get caught by Professor Slughorn on the way out the door. He then heard Zamora say to Malfoy: "You okay?"

"Why do you do that?" Malfoy snapped.

"Do what?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy chuck the rest of his butterbeer, slam down the mug, and then look away disdainfully. "You've got butterbeer foam on your top lip." He shot Zamora an extremely angry look. "What now?!" she whispered incredulously.

"It's like you're always criticizing me!" he shot.

"I—am—not!" she insisted. "You wanna go through life with butterbeer foam on your top lip and nobody telling you about it?" Harry noticed that she really did have a bit of a New York accent when she got bothered. Malfoy looked away. Zamora took her hot chocolate and dipped her entire nose into the pile of whipped cream while she sipped. Standing, she pranced 'round the table, half her face covered with white, cuddled in next to Malfoy. "Um, is there anything you wanna tell me?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes, looked to Zamora, and burst out laughing hard. Harry felt sick and looked away. He heard them kiss, but quickly smiled when Slughorn noticed him. Harry stood, a smile on his face.

"Harry my dear boy!" said Professor Slughorn, his cheeks red as Father Christmas's.

"Hello, sir, wonderful to see you!" he said, shaking his hand firmly.

"And you, dear boy, and you!" Harry could smell the nog on his breath.

"What brings you to the Three Broomsticks?"

"Oh, the Three Broomsticks and I go way back…" He swayed, his balding head shining in the light. "I can remember when it was _one_ broomstick!" He swayed with a wheezing cackle, and some of his warm beer went spilling on the table. "Whoop! All hands on deck, Granger!" He looked back to Harry. "Are you here to compete in the Snowman Building contest?"

"Er, no, sir—I'm afraid I'm not terribly artistic, sir."

"Quite impressive a feat, wouldn't you say?" He was slurring quite a bit. "Why, I've never seen this much discipline and organization in _my_ day! And the pumpkin carving contest last Hallo'ween! Why, extraordinary! I can't believe a single student organized all of this! Are you _enjoying_ your little friendly competition with the Princess of Potions?"

Harry was _not_. "Nothing quite like a little healthy competition," he lied with a smile, causing Slughorn to wheeze.

"By the way, my dear boy, I've been known to throw the occasional supper party back in the day…a select group of special students…" Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Would you be game?"

"I'd consider it an honor, sir."

Slughorn nodded and swayed a bit to look to Hermione. "You'd be welcome, too, Granger," he said.

"I'd be delighted, sir," said Hermione, her own top lip now covered with butterbeer foam.

"Splendid, splendid!" he chortled. "Look for my owl!" He then turned to Ron. "Good to see you— _oof_!"

"Eek!"

Beer splashed all over the table, and Hermione jumped up in shock. Zamora had knocked herself rather forcefully into Professor Slughorn's side when she had gotten up from her and Malfoy's table.

"Oh, Professor! I am – so – sorry!" She quickly whipped out her wand. "Here—" She pointed at the spill on the table and floor and twirled her wands anti-clockwise. " _Errorem contrarium_!" She cast, and the ale was quickly reversed from the table and spun backwards up into Slughorn's mug again, all heavy with foam. Hermione's jaw dropped.

"Merlin's beard!" he slurred, his eyes wide as saucers. "Well if that isn't a useful charm!"

Zamora tucked a curl behind her ear, giving a teensy laugh in embarrassment. "My mother invented that one. Just a simple cleaning charm to keep her daughter from crying about her spilled milk. Please excuse me—" Zamora dashed away, a blur of Slytherin green.

"Oh, Miss Zamora!" Slughorn called after her.

"I must go!" she called back before dashing quickly out the door, likely to announce the beginning of the contest.

Slick as a lizard, Malfoy stood up next to Professor Slughorn. "Sir, I hope you'll accept my apologies on Miss Zamora's behalf—she's an American, and a New Yorker at that. They're not akin to slowing down for the sake of being polite."

"Oh, yes, yes of course…" Slughorn then looked to Malfoy, visibly uncomfortable and unsure of what to say. "You look very much like your father," he said in a tone most amiable. Malfoy grinned and looked down. "His spitting image, I daresay."

"A kind thing to say, sir," he admitted. "Thank you. But I'm afraid that's all I have in common with him." Harry frowned. What was that git playing at?

"Oh?" said Slughorn, now seeming to have completely forgotten about them that they were standing in front of.

"Oh. Well, I love my father, of course—but we don't exactly see eye to eye. He dislikes Ella, for example, and—well—I don't dislike her." He then sort of smiled. "Ella's always saying that America fought and won a whole war with England over not having to do what your father has to do." _What the bloody hell is this git on about?_ Harry and Ron exchanged a look.

"I beg your pardon?" Slughorn asked with a frown.

"Oh, nothing, sir, nothing at all. I didn't mean to… Well," He gestured to the door. "Ella's got a spectacular turn-out this year, far more than last year. Why not go outside and watch the festivities? I'll be out there in a moment to join you and wave her over for you, shall I? She's having the Dueling club hand out hot chocolate and sweets that they've made. I'm looking forward to the chocolate-dipped pineapple, myself."

"I'll never say no to pineapple!" laughed Professor Slughorn, jovial again.

"I'll join you in but a moment. Please excuse me." Malfoy gave a small bow and went upstairs, making sure to shoot Harry a look before leaving.

"Well," said Slughorn. "He certainly is well-mannered enough." Harry wanted to vomit, and he guessed that Hermione and Ron felt the same way. He turned back to the trio. "Care to join me in observing the festivities?"

"Certainly, sir—we'll be right out, just soon as we finish our butterbeers!" said Harry. Slughorn left, and Hermione and Ron both gave Harry a quizzical look. "Dumbledore's asked me to get to know him."

"What for?" asked Hermione.

"I don't know. But it must be important. Dumbledore wouldn't ask otherwise..."

They soon went outside to see the festivities, and Hogsmeade was abuzz. The pumpkin carving contest had taken place on Hogwarts grounds, but once Honeydukes had gotten wind of how successful it had been, they insisted on sponsoring this year. Zamora had already started the commencement spell, and the Frog Choir was performing Christmas carols in exciting arrangements of polyphonic harmony. Harry glanced at the prizes and saw that it wasn't just Honeydukes that had donated gift baskets; Scrivenshaft's had donated a very handsome new stationary set, and Gladrags had donated a handsome black coat with matching scarf and gloves. Many of the girls entering had opted for the 'creatures' category while some of the boys had decided to enter the 'structures' category, in which you constructed an igloo or a castle. The Carrow twins were constructing a very impressive sleeping dragon, using popsicle sticks and gardening trowels to sculpt its scales.

"Harry, look!" Ron said, pointing. "Luna's entered the contest, too!" Harry glanced over, and noticed that Luna had chosen to create a scene from, what Harry guessed was, 'Alice in Wonderland.' There was a rabbit wearing a coat with candies for buttons, sitting atop a great teapot which she had colored pink with what smelled like sugar. Hermione smiled, but turned to watch Neville, who was watching Zamora intently as she sang, his round cheeks bright red from either the cold or watching her performance of "O Holy Night."

"I can't believe Neville fancies _her_ of all people," Hermione mumbled under her breath. "Neville's _far_ too nice and decent a person for her."

"I reckon he's a glutton for punishment," Ron commented. "Everyone knows Malfoy's head-over-heels for her."

Hermione quieted and looked to Malfoy, who was chatting with Theo Nott, admiring Astoria Greengrass's entry, which was of a slumbering unicorn with its horn fashioned from an icicle. "Come to think of it, he's barely bothered us all year..." she breathed. Harry frowned in question. "He really is, isn't he?"

"It's true," came Luna's lofty voice. She had stopped sculpting and had stepped silently to be right next to them.

"Luna, your sculpture is very nice," said Harry. Hermione and Ron nodded in agreement.

"He truly loves her; you can see it in the way he looks at her when he thinks nobody's looking. And she loves him back. Not that she'll ever admit it, of course." She quieted her tone, if that were at all possible. "Best not let her know that I let _you_ know. She'd be dreadfully embarrassed."Luna skipped back to her sculpture as if nothing had happened.

Harry didn't know what to make of the thought of Malfoy genuinely caring about someone, feeling any sort of love at all. He looked up; Zamora was singing a solo act now, and the choir was doing a vocalized version of the accompanying music. It was some old song that he'd heard on the radio once or twice around Christmastime, called "Merry Christmas Darling." Hermione had wandered to watch Luna from another angle, and Harry quickly walked in the opposite direction when she saw Ginny and Dean canoodling by the Carrow Twins' structure.

"She's got such a pretty voice," Neville said to nobody in particular. Everyone seemed to think so, but Harry wasn't sure he liked it. He supposed he could admit that she sounded alright. "Did you know she gave me _all_ of her seeds from America?" asked Neville. "My gran's house is full over with starberry bushes and glimmeroses in the summer. Everything sparkles!"

"What's a glimmerose?"

"It's like a rose that...well, glimmers. It catches the light in lots of different ways...the rose petals look smooth, and _feel_ smooth, but they are actually very rough-looking under a looking-eye, so they catch and reflect the light like diamonds do. It's all from the leaves, you see. The leaves collect moonlight while the flowers close up at night, and then the flowers collect sunlight while they shine so that the plant is fed! It's amazing..." He looked back to Zamora again. Harry admitted to himself that it was pretty cool. "And they come in all colors! Every color imaginable-even striped! Black, green, brown...and they smell like their respective colors, too! The red ones smell like cherries sometimes, and then you'll come back later and the same red ones will smell like lipstick. The brown ones smell like manure sometimes, but then other times they'll smell like wood, or chocolate!" Harry didn't know what to think of a flower that smelled like manure.

"What do you do with them?"

"Lots of things! They can be used to make magical dyes that change color in the light, or for pyreworks on the 4th of July! That's the American Independence Day, y'know. Oh, and I hear that you can use it as a potion ingredient, but I forget what for..." He went back to staring at Ella. "It's because of her that Professor Slughorn invited me to the Slug club dinner party, you know."

Harry blinked in surprise. "He did?"

Neville turned to Harry. "I know! _Me_ of all people! But Ella told him about how I bred her a Mimbulus Mimbletonia, and how I was growing all of her plants for her...and, well, now I get to go to the dinner party, too!"

"Brilliant," said Harry, unsure of what else to possibly say.

"Malfoy won't be there," he said in a whisper. "Professor Slughorn's not keen on being involved with Death Eaters at all. So Ella will be there alone...all by herself. I wonder if I'll be able to sit next to her...?"

"It's getting cold. I'm going to get a hot chocolate, mate." Harry excused himself before he vomited all over the snow. He frankly couldn't see what was so appealing about Ella Zamora; Hermione, Ron, and he seemed to be the only ones that weren't under her spell. He quickly decided that she couldn't have possibly used Amortentia on the entire school, and then soon remembered that he initially liked her when she first came to Hogwarts last year. Soon after this realization he recalled that he was likely right to get at least _some_ scorn from her. Potions was her gift and Slughorn thought that Harry was the genius at it, even though she _actually_ was the genius. He'd have to apologize to her, eventually, he guessed...but not until the mystery with Slughorn and Dumbledore was unraveled.

Harry reached the hosting stand and noticed it was headed by Rachael Rosier, a Slytherin fifth-year, and Fergus Crowley, another Slytherin that was a sixth-year. "May I have three hot chocolates, please?" She gave him a rather unfriendly look and turned away in disgust.

"Rachael!" All three of them turned to meet Zamora's unfriendly gaze as she marched towards them. "What are you doing?" The choir had still been singing, but Harry guessed that she had stepped down from singing to being judging.

"He..." She pointed at Harry, but quickly turned red and looked away. Crowley turned away, too.

"He asked you for three hot chocolates, now go and get them! And you!" She shot her gaze to Crowley. "You should know better."

Crowley conceded, a bit red in the face, as Rosier went and poured the hot chocolates and piled them high with cream and marshmallows. "Fifteen sickles, Potter," he sighed, holding out his hand. Zamora stepped in and crossed her arms angrily. Crowley sighed deeply. "Fine." Rosier brought the paper mugs to the counter, and they were steaming hot with an intoxicating chocolate aroma. Crowley held out the cups in his mitted hands. "On the house, Potter." Harry frowned in confusion and looked to Zamora, who impatiently shoved the three mugs into Harry's hands.

"Er... It's not like I can't pay it..." he offered.

"'Confuse, don't abuse', Harry," she said with a wink. "Excuse me." She walked off to continue her judgement of the sculptures, along with fellow judges from other Houses. Feeling extremely confused, Harry went off to hand the hot chocolates to Hermione and Ron, who thanked him. When Harry sipped the chocolate, he paused at how warm and buttery it felt sliding down his throat, and how happy he was in that moment it touched his lips. When he breathed in the aroma, there was a hint of orange and cinnamon swirling around his nose, and he found himself breathing it in deeply.

"Bloody hell," cursed Ron as he dipped his whole face into the marshmallow topping. "Why does American food have to be so good?"

* * *

Really fun, really light-hearted, really cute stuff as a break from that nightmare of a chapter that was last time...enjoy!


	18. Chapter 18

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Harry 20**

* * *

Harry stretched and popped his neck as Ron scraped up the last of the pudding from the casserole dish. Mrs. Weasley had been dropping off puddings and pies via Pigwedgeon nearly daily since Ron and Harry moved in to Grimmauld Place. Neville was their flatmate, too, but it only felt part-time since he spent half the week with Hannah anyhow. The case files were spread over every available surface in the parlor, with quite a few on the floor. Neville was pouring over the results from the potioneer's analysis on the sofa while Harry and Ron sat by the fire. The elephant in the room was clear, but Harry wasn't about to be the one to say it: They needed Ella's help.

"Did any of you imagine her dad to be like that?" Neville suddenly asked from his seat on the sofa. Ron and Harry looked over through the open doorway in question. Neville frowned and put the case files down. "I somehow expected…" He then sighed. "I guess it doesn't matter what I expected." He sipped his tea.

Ron put down his spoon and came over to the couch. Neville didn't look up; Ron put his hands in his pockets. "Y'know, mate…" he began. "You could…" Ron scratched the back of his head. Neville was with Hannah Abbot, now, and Harry didn't reckon that he'd want to see his ex-girlfriend.

"You heard her lawyer," said Neville, sounding a bit defeated. "You want her help, you go through him. He's just doing his job, anyway." He busied himself with looking at the potions ingredient list again. Harry then stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Mate," he began, unsure of where to go.

"What, Harry?" Neville snapped, giving him a rather nasty look. "You want to go ahead? Break the rules and go find her? We aren't in school anymore. This is real life and we can't get away with the things we used to get away with." He breathed out through his nose. "We _have_ to play by the rules."

"Dark Wizards don't play by the rules—" Harry argued, suddenly feeling rather hot in the face.

"Which is why we _aren't_ Dark Wizards." Neville held up the files. "Who cares if we get it done tonight or not? It's not like Lucius Malfoy's getting any more dead…"

Ron found that rather amusing. "Bloke was a slimy git anyway. I'd like to catch the bloke that did him in so I can shake his hand. Did the world a service, if you ask me."

"We still need to catch them," said Harry. "As much as I dislike it…a murder's a murder." Harry couldn't quite believe what he was saying. He certainly wasn't happy about the entire situation, but he was getting older, and he was getting married to Ginny soon. They'd be starting a life together, starting the family that he'd never had. Maybe it was time that he grew up and started realizing that rules and laws were in place to protect people? An Auror was meant to serve and protect, and Harry was an Auror. He could be more than a rule-breaking teenager, couldn't he?

A light tap-tap-tapping was heard by the parlor window, and the three of them turned to see what it was through the doorframe. Ron must have somehow seen it, for he quickly dashed over to the window to open it. The window was jammed shut, unfortunately, so he went to the window by the big piano and opened that one wide. He stuck his head out and gestured for someone to come in. A warm spring breeze flew in, along with great black raven. It swooped over the kitchen table and seamlessly transformed into Ella Zamora, dressed in a posh Ilvermorny blue, who looked rather out of place in their bachelor pad.

"Thank you," she said to Ron. "Hello," she said to Harry with a friendly enough smile. She turned back to Ron. "I have to go home at midnight. What do you all need?"

"Midnight?" Ron repeated in confusion.

"Don't ask me to explain," she said. "The less you know, the better."

"How did you get passed your father?" Harry asked.

Ella gave him a rather incredulous look. "Am I speaking Portuguese right now? _Don't – ask - me – to – explain. The – less – you – know – the – better_." She snorted through her nose. "I have until midnight to help you. Let's see those case files."

Harry and Ron looked at each other, and silently agreed with one another that Ella was right. Sometimes, you have to act first and ask questions later. Harry hated to admit it, but it truly was brilliant having a Slytherin friend to do all the rule-breaking for you.

"Yeah, sure," said Harry. He picked up the files he'd had on the table. "These are some of them," he began, "And Neville's got the Potioneer's analysis."

Ella visibly tensed. She then put on a happy smile and turned to Neville, who gave her a stern look and stood, the files clutched in his fist.

"Hello, Neville," she greeted pleasantly. Neville said nothing, and Harry and Ron both became visibly uneasy. "How are you?" Ella tried. Neville said nothing. Ron stepped to Ella's side.

"Let Ella see those files, mate?" he asked nicely. "She wants to help."

"Eager to catch your ex-Father-in-Law's killer, I reckon," Neville snapped, throwing the files down in a pile on the coffee table and stomping off. Harry braced himself—Ella wasn't about to take that lying down. He quickly stood in front of the kitchen knife drawer to block it from Ella's immediate view.

"What the flames is your problem?!" she shouted at him. "I'm trying to help!" She stomped after him down the hall.

He pivoted to face her. "By snogging Malfoy in front of the Auror's office?" Neville shot coldly.

"Whoa!" gasped Ella, putting her hands up in protest. "Where do _you_ get the balls to be jealous? _I'm_ the one that got dumped, if you recall!"

Neville's anger was quite plainly replaced with shock. "Wha—?! I didn't dump you! You moved to _Brazil_!"

"What?!" blasted Ella, both her hands on her hips. "I didn't _move_ to Brazil! I was _sent_ there on an expedition in order to gain my citizenship to Great Britain! My hands were tied!"

"You could have _married_ me!" Neville insisted.

"And spend the rest of my life wondering if my husband actually _wanted_ to marry me or not? You couldn't even be bothered to make a genuine effort when you proposed—!"

"—Well I'm so sorry that I couldn't just go out and buy you a _giant_ enchanted engagement ring—"

"—You didn't even _get_ a ring, you idiot—you just shouted 'WILL YOU MARRY ME' across the library, in front of _everyone—_ "

"—You still could have said yes when I asked—"

"—You couldn't even get my middle name right! 'Ella _Xanadu_ Zamora?' Are you serious?"

"Yeah? Well?!" Neville's face went an odd shade of purple. "Your name is stupid!"

Ella gasped rather dramatically, her jaw dropping. There was an extremely tense moment. Ron and Harry exchanged a side-eyed look, both silently agreeing to not move or speak until the tension was _somehow_ broken.

The silence was broken with a sob. Neville's face softened as Ella Zamora was reduced to tears. A panic filled Harry's heart, and Ron gave Neville an extremely angry look. They'd only been related for three years, but Ron had certainly become protective of his cousin-in-law. Her hand came up and covered her nose and mouth as her head bent, a curtain of black curls shielding her face.

"Why didn't you write me?" Ella sobbed. "It wasn't over for me—!" Ron came quickly and wrapped his arms around Ella in a comforting embrace. Ella wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"Y-You moved!" Neville stuttered. "The expedition—! Y-Y-You left for Brazil—!" Harry felt extremely uncomfortable.

"And _you_ never came after me!" she screamed, pointing an accusatory finger. Ron took her hand and gathered her in his arms, trying his very best to calm her tears.

Neville's face went white. "I-I-I—!" He opened his arms, pleading. "I-I didn't know that you wanted me to—" Harry side-stepped slowly towards the hallway in hopes of inching by the drama enough to get to his bedroom.

"Oh, please!" Ella snapped, swinging a free arm angrily as Ron tried desperately to console her. "You actually expect me to believe that you were _really – still – that – dense?!_ I told you that the expedition was to learn about and study South American plants for medicinal purposes! I said that they were searching for _Herbology experts,_ you _thick – ass – doughnut!_ What the hell _else_ would that mean?!"

Just when Harry had reached the base of the stairs, the floor board creaked, causing all three of them—a pantomime of various emotions—to look his way. Harry froze. He gulped. Ella sighed and wiped her eyes and nose on Ron's tie, then shrugged herself away.

"Just forget it." She walked to the sofa and proceeded to pick up the case files.

Neville started towards her, but quickly stopped himself. His face was stark white, his eyes wide as saucers. Ron went to the sofa with the rest of the files and sat himself down next to Ella. Harry wondered if he'd ever know what had happened between them to make them so close. He moved to join them, just to be in earshot of Neville whispering to himself "I've made the biggest mistake of my life." Harry didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

Neville excused himself and quietly went upstairs. The three of them convened in the parlor. Ella's eyes were a bit red, as was her nose, but she still looked to be rather composed.

"Huh," she said, sniffling away the remainder of any tears she may have had. "That's odd."

"Sorry," began Harry. "What's odd?"

"This Potioneer's analysis," she said, her brow furrowed in focus. "Can I have the autopsy?"

Ron got up and grabbed the file from the kitchen table, then quickly returned with it in hand. "What are you looking for?" he asked.

"Poisons are interesting," she said. "Lucius Malfoy wasn't the kind of person to _not_ make an impression. It's likely when you're murdered, it was by someone you knew. It's only in special cases that a murder is random... We're absolutely sure it wasn't a suicide?"

Harry didn't quite follow, and neither did Ron. "We're not," he admitted.

"Git had every reason to off himself," said Ron. "But it's...something doesn't smell right about it."

"Hmm," said Ella, spreading them out. "Hmm-hmm-hmm…"

"Er…" Harry began. "If we knew what you were looking for—?"

Ella held up her finger to stopper his words. She leaned back on the sofa, crossed her legs, and closed her eyes. She took in a deep breath through her nose and sighed, long and low, through her lips. Harry and Ron exchanged a look. Her lips began moving, and – upon leaning in – they could audibly hear her chanting to herself: "Think. Think. Think." Ron non-verbally excused himself to make a pot of tea. Harry decided to join him in the kitchen.

"What do you think she's doing?" Harry whispered.

Ron shrugged. "Too scared to ask," he whispered back.

"D'you think…?" Harry was unsure of how to put it into words. "Was Neville _actually_ serious when he proposed two years ago?"

"Don't know." Ron shifted uncomfortably, then snatched the kettle off the stove before it could whistle. He poured the hot water over the tea bags. "I mean…she's cool," Ron admitted. "But can you _really_ imagine Neville and Ella getting hitched?" Harry couldn't help but snicker through his nose. "Guess I shouldn't make fun, though. Kid seems hurt." Harry nodded.

"But he's with Hannah, now," Harry argued quietly. Surely, after two years and a loving relationship with Hannah, Neville'd be far over Ella by now…

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "Well. Best not talk about it anymore. Those smart ones…they get scary when they're mad." Harry nodded in agreement. They came out with a modest tea tray of Earl Gray and some biscuits from the tin. Ella was still in that closed-eye position, barely breathing. The two sat down.

"Apples," she said, causing Harry and Ron to startle a little. The teacups shifted on the tray, and Ron quickly set them down. "Apples," she said again. She opened her eyes. "Oh, lovely," she said with a honeyed smile as she eyed the tea tray. Ron poured her a cup of tea.

"What about apples?" asked Harry.

"They grow in the Malfoy's garden," she said, handing Harry the Potioneer's analysis. "To the south, there's a grove of apple trees that bloom the first day of Spring. The poison itself is a potion that you've never seen before, right?" Harry nodded. "Look at the Herbologist's notes. Compounds of hemlock, of course, as well as the word "bitter almond poison?" scribbled in the margins." She looked at Harry. "Go to Malfoy Manor and get some of their apples. They should have tons of them in the storerooms below from last autumn. Ten galleons says that the murderer got the poison derived from the apple seeds."

"Apple seeds are poisonous?" Harry queried.

"In large amounts, yes." She added four sugar cubes to her tea cup and stirred. "The seeds from a single apple won't do you any harm. If you were to down a whole _cup_ of apple seeds, you'd _definitely_ die, although it would take several hours to kill you. Ever heard of arsenic? Cyanide?" Harry nodded, while Ron looked confused. "Those are things that came from fruit seeds, such as apples or apricots."

"Brilliant!" praised Harry. "Er—I mean, _you're_ brilliant. Poison's…bad." Ella scoffed, and Ron fixed himself and Harry their own tea cups. "So…who would know about the apples?"

"Someone close to the Malfoys?" suggested Ron.

"Someone who knew the Malfoy grounds well," Ella agreed.

"The Notts?"

"Oh please," shot Ella. "Teddy has no reason to kill Draco's father. Look for someone with a motive…and look for someone smart; someone that Lucius trusted." Ella sipped her tea. "The killer is someone who he trusted enough to allow into his home, to be around his wife, his wealth…someone that knew about the apples…" She leaned her head back on the sofa, then glanced in Harry's direction. "Do you have the suicide note?" Harry nodded. "Am I allowed to see it?" Harry thought for a long time, remembered what her father said, considered his options, and then finally shook his head to say 'no.' Ella closed her eyes. "In that case... Please read it to me, aloud, nice and slow."

Harry flipped the pages in the file in front of them and found the suicide note. It was written in an impeccable hand, with many flourishes and rather small. He cleared his throat and read aloud:

"' _My heart is too full. My only son, my treasure. I cannot bear the pain that I have caused him for another moment. I only hope he may someday forgive me for what I have done. Lucius Malfoy._ '"

Harry watched Ella's face, which remained neutral. Ron rolled his eyes, but wasn't about to say anything out loud with Ella there. There was a long silence.

"Read that again, if you please," Ella requested. "Nice and slow." Harry abided, confused. Ella's eyes opened. "It's his handwriting?" asked she.

"It appears to be his handwriting," Harry replied, feeling unsure.

"Is it large or small?" Ella asked.

"Sorry?"

"The handwriting. Is it large or small?"

Harry glanced at the parchment. "Small," he decided. Ella frowned and pressed her palms together in thought, touching her fingertips to her lips, and twitching her nose.

"Does the handwriting slant to the right?"

"Why does that matter?" queried Ron, feeling rather confused.

Harry glanced at the parchment again. "Yes," he replied. "A bit dramatically, in fact." Ella sighed through her nose.

"It wasn't a suicide. Someone killed him," said Ella. She turned to Harry. "Or, at least, he didn't write the suicide note."

"What? You're barking," said Ron. "You can't know who did it just from that!"

"Do not tell me what I can or cannot do," stated Ella. "Graphology is a legitimate science."

"What's graphology?"

"The study of handwriting. It's quite interesting...I picked it up when I was eight."

"How can you know all of that?" balked Ron.

"I just have a crazy-good memory," Ella replied with a little laugh. "It's called a Mind Palace. It's a special way of learning to remember things...anybody can make one! That's how I keep my thoughts organized, how I repel legilimens... It's extremely useful."

"Is it a form of occlumency?" he asked.

"No, not at all. It's just a way to keep your thoughts organized so you never forget anything. It's so easy, even No-Majs can do it. Not that they would..."

Harry frowned in question, then wondered if his not-so-successful attempts at occlumency may have been made easier if he hadn't been so proud as to not ask Ella for help. He began to regret all the time he wasn't her friend. "When did you see Lucius Malfoy's handwriting?" he then asked.

Ella shrugged. "Draco and his father wrote letters to each other all the time. I'd glance over his shoulder and see it."

Harry was reminded of how inseparable she and Malfoy were, once upon a time. She could be rather mean, it was true, but Luna said that she loved him, and that he loved her back. If they felt love, friendship, then they truly couldn't be the worst thing ever. He wouldn't understand her, ever, but Harry was learning, slowly, to appreciate and admire her...like a friend. "And you remember?"

"Everyone remembers. They just forget that they do." _That makes no sense... "_ I can't explain it. I guess that means I don't fully understand it, either. Einstein once said that you don't fully understand something you can't explain simply."

Harry shifted and leaned forward. "Ella," he began. "You quote muggle scientists. You learn from muggle mathematicians." She nodded in agreement. "But...you're a Pureblooded Witch. You don't feel that knowledge is...beneath you?" She shook her head.

"Wizardkind has never had a reason to seek out 'why' because all of their problems are solved by magic. When a _Muggle_ struggles, they question, they find an answer...one thing I'll say about them is that they're not lazy. In fact, I think that they're rather ingenious. The only problem is that their ingenuity is hand-in-hand with their cruelty. They lead such wretched, miserable lives, and yet the few of them choose to rise above and find an answer. I think the lot of them as a group is rather deplorable, but you do find a few diamonds in that coal mine. Albert Einstein, Marie Curie, Nikola Tesla, Edward Jenner, Stephen Hawking...even their art is better. Van Gogh. Beethtoven. Art comes from great suffering, and who but the Muggles suffer the most? Who leads a more wretched life than a Muggle? When they're sick, they suffer. They can't just wave a wand and make it better. When they're cold, they can't cast a heating charm or conjure a fire. When it's dark, they can't just _make_ a light. They had to find a way to create it...and they did. They've created the most phenomenal things, the most _wonderful_ machines that do _wonderful_ things." She sighed. "The movies. The internet. Telephones. Automobiles. Those little tabs on soda pop cans. Wonderful inventions! Don't you think?"

"Blimey, it's like being with Hermione," sighed Ron. "Wonder what it's like inside _your_ head...?"

Ella laughed. "You wouldn't last five minutes." She then stopped laughing and looked at Harry. A light went off in her eyes, which Harry knew couldn't be good. "But you might." _Nope. Not good._ "Harry." She reached across the coffee table and put her hand on his wrist. "Did Professor Snape teach your occlumency?"

Harry's chest tightened at the memories of Professor Snape's lessons. "He tried."

"Did he succeed?"

"I mean..." Harry trailed off. "Sort of?"

"Did you manage to repel Voldemort?"

"Sometimes..." said Harry, a bit red in the face now with both confusion and embarrassment.

"Spectacular!" said Ella without a hint of sarcasm. "Now, did you ever try legilimency?"

Harry thought back to when he successfully penetrated Snape's mind by using ' _protego_.' "Ella?" Ron asked. "What are you planning?"

"Harry knows what he's looking for," Ella explained. "I don't." _That makes no sense_. "Harry, if you can get inside my head, look through my memories of Lucius Malfoy, of the Manor...then maybe you can catch the killer?"

"We're not sending Harry inside _your_ head, you lunatic!" gasped Ron. "We'll go to the Ministry. We'll use the Pensieve. Get a memory from ya..."

"No way!" Ella argued. "Not only is that breaking the rules in about ten different ways, but a memory is _tangible_. You can't just throw it away or hide it...someone's going to find it. And let's recall that _I'm not supposed to be here_. In fact, I _wasn't_ here. I'm not even here now." She huffed. "Listen. I keep my mind organized. You can navigate it. I'll help you. Just as long as you don't touch anything in there, I'll come out fine and so will you! And even if you see something weird on accident, I won't get mad. I promise."

"But it's dangerous!" Ron argued.

"Oh, honestly, Ron. Where's your sense of adventure?" She set her tea down. "My dad's not going to let anyone near me while this case is going on. This is the only way that's safe enough for me to help you."

"Er...I..." Harry was unsure of what to say. Ron seemed wholly against the entire idea. He wanted Hermione's help, but Hermione wasn't an Auror, and Harry's rule-breaking wasn't about to get _her_ in trouble, either. He then decided that Ella was likely right. Besides, if she knew what she was doing, then perhaps he _could_ find the piece of the puzzle that was missing? After all, if Ella remembered _everything_ , it would simply be like watching a movie and looking for the right supporting character.

"Harry, listen." Ella cleared her throat. "If it were just _one_ memory, it would be one thing...but the person we're looking for knows the ins and outs of Malfoy Manor, knows Lucius Malfoy, and had a long time to think about and plan this. Whoever did it was likely around Lucius, Narcissa, _and_ Draco quite a bit, and that means that I likely know them, too." A beat. "You know what you're looking for when you look for a killer. You're the Auror here."

"What about me?" asked Ron.

"You're to stay here and watch the clock, make sure we don't go over-time. Also, take me to St. Mungo's Memory Care ward if I end up getting befuddled..."

"What?" balked Ron and Harry in unison.

"Look, it'll be fine!" insisted Ella. "You have to pay attention. Watch, don't touch, don't speak while you're in there," she stated. "This isn't the first time I've done this...just the first time I've done it with you."

"Who else have you done this with?" asked Harry, even though he likely knew the answer.

"My mother, if you must know." she shot. "Who do you think showed me occlumency? Legilimency? This is the only way I can think of to help you _without_ getting my father involved _or_ getting us caught that works immediately."

"What if he catches you anyway? Your dad?" Ron asked.

"Oh, please, I've got a 21-year-streak of skirting around his eye. You think I'm gonna screw it up now?" Ron couldn't help but smile. "Remember. Straight to St. Mungo's if I end up befuddled. Ask for Rosalie." She glanced at the clock. "We have a little more than two hours before I have to leave for home. Are you ready, Harry?"

 _Whether I am or not, you seem to be_... He took in and let out a long breath. He nodded. "Let's do it."

Ella bid Ron pull the big armchair next to the sofa, where she laid down. Harry stood over her and took out his wand, while Ron sat in the chair. She smiled. "Listen, you're only there to _observe_. You're just a shadow in there, okay? Nothing's going to physically harm you. Everything will pass right through you as if you weren't there. Don't speak, don't touch, don't try to interact with anything in there. Or you get to explain to my dad why I'm befuddled in your parlor."

He gulped. "Brilliant."

She smiled in, what Harry guessed, was meant to be a comforting way. "When you point your wand and say 'legilimens', think of the phrase "mind palace." This will take you to where you need to go. And what are you to _not do_?"

"'Speak or touch anything.'" Harry recited. Ella nodded. "Are you sure it's going to be okay?"

"Are we ever?" she joked. Ron looked nervous, likely because he didn't want to have to explain this to Hermione later. "Go ahead." She let out a long, soothing breath. "I'm ready."

Harry pointed his wand at her brow, feeling nervous, but ready. He remembered the voice of Professor Snape, telling him to calm his racing heart, to empty himself of emotion. He repeated, in his head, ' _mind palace, mind palace, mind palace_ ' and cast: " _Legilimens_." He was pu _shed forward._

 _Harry opened his eyes. He was in the gardens of what looked like the Taj Mahal, with clear waters and pristine white masonry. There was no sky or ground; everything was just all in a glaring white, where gold and silver snowflakes were gently falling and soaking into the ground. To his immediate left stood a stately palace with a golden pitched roof. He glanced around, hearing everything and nothing all at once. Looking directly in front, a hooded figure, all in white, came towards him. He tensed, fighting the instinct to take his wand out. He reminded himself that nothing could harm him, and that he was traipsing about in someone else's head...not the time to be reckless._

 _The hooded figure stopped in front of him and removed their cowl. It was Ella. Her face was plain with no painted lips or curled lashes, and her hair was long and soft down her shoulders. There was a strange sort of serenity in her eyes that made the shadow almost unrecognizable._

 _"I am Tranquility," spoke the figure, whose clothes turned to bright orange. "Feel no fear in this place, Harry Potter. I will guide you." The voice sounded like Ella's, but with none of her snark or sarcasm, so it was clearly_ not _Ella at all. "Please follow me." The figure walked slowly towards the palace. When Harry looked, it had no reflection in the pools in the garden. He followed silently, walking passed the statues of white marble, fashioned in the shapes of people, animals, all with gold name plates at the bases. One particular statue caught his eye._

 _He stopped at the figure of a woman that appeared to be guarding the house, right in the center of the courtyard, dressed in long, beaded robes with long straight hair with feathers woven in and out. The statue was the only one with flowers growing on it, and Harry recognized them to be bunches of heather blooms, all in purple. The woman was standing tall, straight, surveying all and protecting all, and Harry felt a strange kind of reverence the more he gazed. The plate at the bottom of the statue read: "Professor Fivehorses."_

 _"You are curious," spoke Tranquility, snapping Harry to attention. "That is fine to be so." Tranquility looked at the statue. "That is Professor Fivehorses, Head of Thunderbird House, and likely the Witch Ella admires the most, second to Professor McGonagall, who is just over there."_

 _Harry glanced to his left, and to his shock and surprise stood a statue of Professor McGonagall, wand out, standing ferociously in a battle pose. At the base of the statue grew a ring of thick green stalks that smelled rather pungent. Harry wondered what the plant was, and why a statue of McGonagall was standing next to Ella's favorite Professor from Ilvermorny. "Garlic," explained Tranquility. "It is a herb of strength, of healing, of ultimate protection, likely one of the most-powerful there is. There's an old No-Maj folktale that states if you eat enough garlic you'll be able to breathe fire, like a dragon." She pointed at the statue. "She is very important. But please remain focused. You may return here, if you so desire, at a later date." She moved on, and walked into the palace. Harry quickly followed into the blinding white light._

 _The light died down, and he found himself in a room not unlike the hallways of the Ministry of Magic, all in brown. He stood in front of a door in the middle of an endless hallway that ran either way with endless amounts of doors just like it._ _Tranquility opened the door; it was pitch black inside. A somewhat foreboding breeze was coming from within, and with it came a few dead elm leaves that scattered on the floor, then vanished._

 _"This door holds all of the memories associated with Lucius Malfoy," she explained. "You may go inside and look around, but please refrain from speaking unless it is to exit the mind. In this room, you will find the most-recent memories at the very front. When you are ready to exit, simply say the phrase: 'cheese and olive sandwich.'"_

 _"'Cheese and olive sandwich'?" Harry repeated in utter confusion, and was jerked by his naval out of the_ mind, back into his body where he was standing over an extremely angry-looking Ella Zamora, who was anything but tranquil. She held her head, which appeared to be throbbing and coated with sweat.

"God-DAMMIT Harry!" she cursed. "Do you _wonder_ why you're not in Ravenclaw?!"

Harry gave a nervous laugh. "Not really," he said. Ella snorted in anger and took a glug of tea. After a few deep breaths and another biscuit down the hatch, she was ready to go again. She nodded for Harry to try again, and Harry reentered h _er mind..._

 _Back at the wooden door, Tranquility was waiting. She motioned inside with a grin. "Please remember to speak "cheese and olive sandwich" only should you choose to exit the mind." Harry nodded silently with a smile. "No need for thanks. I know you are grateful. Please, go inside."_

 _Harry took in a deep breath and stared into the abyss. There was no sign of any type of floor, wall, or ceiling. He noted the door, which was fashioned of wood with a frosted glass pane that had "Lucius Malfoy" etched in. Going into Snape's mind wasn't nearly this organized, and he'd seen so many flashes and layers of memories that it turned his head. Now wasn't the time, though; now was the time to be brave and move forward._

 _Holding his breath, Harry threw himself into the blackness of the room and was shockingly found in a closet, all in white, all carpeted, all lined with racks and racks of fancy clothes. He saw a mirror, but Harry had no reflection; instead, it was Ella, who was bright-eyed and clothed in black slacks and a black tee shirt. Her hair was long and down around her shoulders, and she was putting on some gold bangles. Harry looked down at himself to see if he was_ actually _there, and as he did he couldn't help but gasp as Hermione walked straight through him. Only...was that really Hermione?_

 _"I don't know about this." Hermione's voice rang clear as a bell, but she looked so different it was almost beyond recognition. Her hair was straight and pulled and twisted into a fancy updo, and upon her ears were the largest diamond chandelier earrings he'd ever seen. Her eyes were heavy with makeup, and her lips were painted a blood red color. She was wearing a fluffy white bathrobe, but beneath it Harry could see the sparkling hem of a gown. "I just...I mean...are you sure?"_

 _He looked to Ella, who smiled. "Am I going to have to take that robe off myself?" Hermione looked as if she were on the verge of tears. "It can't look that bad; all of my dresses are self-adjusting. Let's see." Hermione turned away; Harry could see in the reflection of the mirror she was feeling extremely embarrassed. Ella came up behind her and removed the bathrobe gently. Harry couldn't help but gasp._

 _Hermione was garbed in a long, slinky black gown with impeccable lacework done around the hems. The neckline was certainly lower than Hermione would have liked, and Harry could tell how uncomfortable her naked shoulders were; he hated to think of how pretty she looked, especially when he knew how uncomfortable she was. Ella brought black opera gloves, which went all the way over Hermione's elbows when slipped on. She rummaged through a small treasure chest of jewelry so fine that it rivaled all reason and found a silver ring with the largest ruby that Harry had ever seen. She slipped it on Hermione's left hand._

 _"Is this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless tours of Ilyum?"_

 _"Don't," sighed Hermione, clearly distressed at her reflection. "Oh, Ella, are you...?" She sighed. "Are you sure this is 'me'?"_

 _"Of course not," Ella replied. "The people here don't_ like _you." Hermione went red, her eyes welled with tears. "That's why you have to do this. That's why you have to show them that you are_ more _than your work. They've got to see the rest of you, that wonderful complex being that you are. You're going into battle tonight; one doesn't dive into a battle unprepared." Ella took her powder and brushed some onto Hermione's cheeks. "This isn't makeup; this is war paint." Hermione scoffed a little. Ella took a wreath of diamonds that could likely buy Cokeworth and hung it at Hermione's throat. "This isn't a necklace, this is your weapon." She spanked Hermione's rear, which caused a gasp. "This isn't a dress; this is armor." She smiled. "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and think of the most-beautiful thought in your heart." Hermione smiled and obeyed; Ella took her perfume from a crystal bottle and spritzed it on Hermione's shimmering brown hair. "There. That's better, isn't it?"_

 _Hermione opened her eyes again and looked at her reflection, which was unearthly beautiful. "I don't even recognize me," she breathed._

 _"Wait!" cried Ella, pointing at her feet. "What are those?"_

 _Hermione lifted the hem of her gown to reveal her plain black pumps, the ones she wore for work. "Oh, it's fine, nobody will see them," she said with a grin._

 _"No-no-_ no _!" gasped Ella. "It ruins the whole look! I thought I told you to pick some shoes from my closet!"_

 _"All of yours are too big..."_

 _Ella puffed up her bangs from her brow, annoyed. "Lift up your gown." Hermione tensed as Ella brought out her wand, and waved it around flamboyantly. "_ Bibbity bobbity boo! _" Sparkles of silver and gold flourished around in a swirl and the plain black pumps were transfigured into shimmering slippers as pure as silver. "All better! And the enchantment will fade at sunrise, so you'll have your shoes back." Hermione laughed with glee. Harry couldn't believe that Ella just used a spell from an old cartoon movie in real life to do real magic. "Gracious, is that the time? We'd better get a move on. The carriage will be here any moment..."_

 _"Carriage?!" Hermione gasped._ This is like Cinderella _, thought Harry, amused. "You're having a carriage brought to Cokeworth?"_

 _"It'll be fine," said Ella with a wave of her hand. She slipped on some pointy-toed ballet flats. "No-Majs won't see_ Meme's _carriage. They'll think it's a big yellow taxi." She pinched her cheeks and swirled on some nude lipstick and a touch of mascara. "Ready?"_ _Hermione paused. "What's wrong?"_

 _"I..." She gulped. "I heard what Malfoy - er - Draco did." Ella's face changed. "I just... They're going to be there tonight, aren't they?" Ella smiled dismissively with a shrug and summoned a fine fur shawl and draped it over Hermione's shoulders. "Are you going to be alright?"_

 _"Tonight's not about me, Draco, Lucius,_ or _anyone else..." She took Hermione's chin. "It's about you tonight. You're the star. You're shining."_

 _"But it's Zabini's party..."_

 _"Don't go in thinking that. Go in thinking that it's_ your _party. And let me take care of the rest." A bell rang. "Let's go!"_

 _Harry blinked and their shadows faded and brightened all at once, and Harry was in the middle of a lavish party, far finer than was appropriate. There were shadows and voices fading all around where Ella and Hermione was. He quickly figured that he couldn't hear what was going on with everyone else because he was only seeing Ella's memories and what she saw. Suddenly, the Malfoys were announced and Ella downed the rest of the whiskey that was in her hand and smiled at Hermione. Zabini was on her right._

 _"Now that the Malfoys are here, why not invite Hermione to have the first dance?" Harry just then noticed that Ella was still wearing the tee shirt and slacks while everyone else was dressed so fine that he almost forgot he were not at the Yule Ball._

 _Zabini cringed, but conceded, saying "Well, since I can't have the first one with_ you _..." He motioned to her attire. He turned to Hermione, stiffly. "Miss Granger?" he offered his arm. Hermione looked rather aghast, but went along with the dance before anyone could say no. The music swelled and Ella made her way towards the punch bowl, whispering in the ears of those that she passed:_

 _"Is that Hermione Granger? Look at that gown! I thought she was just some stuffy lawyer, but I suppose I was wrong!" Harry couldn't help but laugh to himself at her game, making everyone in the whole party look at Hermione instead of herself. She snatched up a cognac from a House Elf's tray and continued to circle the party, making comments behind everyone's backs about how lovely Hermione looked. By the time that cognac was gone and she'd snatched up a tumbler of whiskey from another tray, Lucius Malfoy had found her. Harry could feel the tension in Ella's heart as if it were his own. She grinned pleasantly. "Good evening, Mister Malfoy," she greeted sweetly; Harry felt the secret, seething rage in his own heart that she was obviously feeling at that moment. It burned so hotly that he felt he might scream, and his ears felt like they were going to catch fire._

 _"Ella Zamora," he greeted. "We meet at last." He offered his hand. Harry's hand felt cold, and he realized that she was gripping the icy glass hard enough to nearly crack it. He felt the sudden urge to transform into a raven and peck his bloody eyes out, but then realized that he was feeling what Ella was feeling as he shook his hand. "There was a time that Draco spoke of nothing else."_

 _"Same could be said about you, Mister Malfoy." If Ron had been there, this would be the part where he gasped 'bloody hell' with a big laugh. Harry was feeling too furious to feel any sort of humor._

 _"Word travels fast of your work," Lucius Malfoy mentioned, almost offhandedly. "The revolutionary potioneer, using_ muggle _findings to further her studies..."_

 _"You're thanking me, then?" Harry felt the internal rage so clearly that he almost doubled over in pain. He knew that Ella felt her emotions deeply, but he hadn't any idea of the extent. "You're most welcome, in that case, Mister Malfoy. The pleasure was all mine."_

 _Mister Malfoy tensed his grip on his silver-and-black walking stick._

 _"I expect that it's a great load off your chest. You know, all things considered." She swigged her whiskey. A tickle was felt in the back of Harry's mind, then whispers and voices, and a whole range of emotions from both Ella and Lucius, like a drill coming in at both temples to meet in the middle. His vision shattered as the conversation went on. Was he experiencing Ella using legilimency on Malfoy's father_ while _Harry was using legilimency on her? "I expect that you're relieved that this kind of thing was moved forward before the connection was made to you."_

 _"How dare you...!" whispered Mister Malfoy, trying terribly hard to be intimidating._

 _Ella smiled sweetly. "I'll go down in history as the brightest witch of my age for my work, a marvelous, philanthropic potioneer. They can't fit everything I've done on my soon-to-be-printed Chocolate Frog card, and I've barely turned twenty-one. What do you think they'd put on yours, Mister Malfoy?" Lucius tensed, and Ella felt his emotions surge. "Go ahead. Pull out that wand. Give me a reason. Or give my father one. He's the wizard over there, talking to your son." Harry looked over and saw across the room, Ella's father speaking with Draco, who was looking longingly at Ella, like he might...cry?_

 _"Malfoy was there, too..." whispered Harry to himself, and the memory quickly shifted and jerked violently around to create a new one. He was on the pumpkin patch back at Hogwarts on a brisk autumn afternoon. Ella and Malfoy were snuggling on a picnic blanket while students were carving pumpkins all around them. Harry realized that he must have accidentally sent himself to a memory involving Draco by saying what he did out loud. He cursed inwardly, trying not to trigger another shift._

 _"I'm so happy you decided to come!" said Ella, all wrapped up in stockings and skirts and warm green sweaters. "We've got an hour to just sit and enjoy..." A cool autumn breeze came, swirling leaves all around."Draco, hand me my drink, will you?" Ella asked Malfoy, pointing to the picnic basket. He pulled out a cranberry red thermos and examined it; Harry realized that Malfoy likely hadn't ever seen one before, and then wondered why Ella had one. "Want some?" She took the thermos from his pale hand and opened it, steam from hot apple cider rising into the chilly air. "Mulled cider...my mom's recipe!"_

 _"How did you...?" gasped Malfoy._

 _Ella frowned in confusion._

 _"That long mug... It's...cold on the outside but hot on the inside," he commented._

 _"Oh!" she laughed. "It's a thermos." Harry felt Ella's thoughts inside his own mind, and he got the feeling that they were far more lenient in America about using muggle devices at Ilvermorny. Malfoy then took out his wand and pointed it at the brown ceramic mug he had been drinking out of._

 _"_ Thermos _!" he cast. Nothing happened, and Malfoy looked at his wand in confusion. He swished-and-flicked. "_ Thermos _!" he tried again. Harry saw Ella's face, and felt her emotions in his heart, and with all of that swept a wave of warmth and the words: '_ I must protect this precious angel _'..._

 _"Here," Ella said, taking his hand with hers. "It's more like..." She took out her own wand and twirled it thrice anti-clockwise and pointed. "Together." They twirled their wands anti-clockwise and pointed. Malfoy cast 'thermos' again, but Ella mouthed something different, and his mug transfigured into a tall thermos that was checked with black and gray. Malfoy frowned as he picked it up._

 _"I wanted black," he commented. Harry didn't want to be there to witness any romantic moments, but he was too afraid to say anything else in case he was projected to an even grosser memory._

 _Ella's eyebrows lifted. "I wanted dove gray," she said._

 _Malfoy frowned. "But black matches all of my clothes."_

 _She leaned her chin on his shoulder and said: "But dove gray matches your eyes, don't you think?"_

 _Harry had enough, and shouted "Cheese and olive sandwich!" as loud as he co_ uld. He was blasted back, sweat dripping all down his shirt and through his tie, his hair stuck to his forehead as he stood over Ella on the couch, who looked both a combination of extremely pained and extraordinarily perturbed.

"Er—uh—sorry," stumbled Harry. She shakily stood, her ankles wobbling like a newborn doe, and Harry quickly scurried away from her. "I-I didn't mean to—!" He jumped out of the way as green sparks flew from Ella's wand.

"ELLA, NO!" cried Ron as he tripped over the coffee table in an attempt to stop her.

"Ella, YES!" shouted Ella as she set a fire spell at Harry's backside. " _Filpendo!"_ she cast, the armchair flying into the ceiling as Harry retreated around the corner.

"It was an accident, I swear!" cried Harry from behind the bookcase. The teapot smashed against the wall right by his head. "You promised you wouldn't get mad!"

"Hitler promised to not invade Czechoslovakia, Harry—welcome to the real world!"

* * *

Phew!

Here we have another chapter that deals with a LOT of plot points. There's quite a bit going on here, and occlumency/legilimency is very present. This was the most-fun way I could think of to do the party scene that involved the conversation between Lucius and Ella without giving _too_ much away, so I hope I did okay on it!

Entering the 'mind palace' was a fun scene for me. I wondered what it would be like for skilled legilimens to navigate their own thoughts, or the thought of others...and figured I'd snag the idea from "Sherlock." By keeping one's thoughts organized by groups and associations, it's MUCH easier to remember things, which is how Ella's got that freaky-awesome memory. The protectors of the Mind Palace are those that she admires, which are - of course - Professor Fivehorses and Professor McGonagall. Sure, there's fear from McGonagall...but ultimately Ella has the utmost respect for her...at least, _now_ she does. Lol.

More plot points, more drama...and what a nasty acid fight from Neville! Yikes! Stay tuned for more!


	19. Chapter 19

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Draco 16**

* * *

The tent felt warm and cold all at once, and Draco must have readjusted his gloves and goggles about a thousand times. There were no visible cuts on his face or arms, so nobody said anything. His hair was combed and face was washed, so nobody said anything. He was an expert at keeping a straight face in times like these. Today was no exception. Draco didn't even know why he was checking his reflection in the mirror.

"Oi, Malfoy –" Draco glanced to his left at Miles' face. He was leaning on his broomstick, giving him a sort of smug grin. "Heard what happened last night…" He kept his face as neutral as possible. He frowned. Miles gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. "Oi, mate? Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aw, don't be coy, Malfoy," said Tobias, a chaser, who was lacing his boot on the bench. "S'alright. Everyone knows...Blaise sneaking you your Quidditch robes this morning? Nobody seeing Ella at all since after supper…?" "

"Come on!" begged Miles. "It couldn't have been more obvious! I mean, Ella coming back to the dorm this morning in her school robes, all stiff and sore…? Her hair had leaves in it…? Her _knees_ were all bloody…?"

Draco turned away, a strange kind of sensation flowing over him. His skin felt tight and his face and shoulders felt uncomfortably hot. His chest tensed.

"C'mon. How was it?" Miles whispered. "I mean, we all know she's _loud_ in the classroom..." Some of the others laughed.

He heard his own heartbeat in his ears, and before he could think about what had happened, he was looking down at Miles with a bloody jaw, who had fallen into the benches. There was a great clamor and quite a bit of shouting, and Blaise came immediately to stand in front of Draco while Marcus came in front of Miles to pull him up.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen—please!" quelled Blaise. "We have a game to win today."

"He punched me!" shouted Miles, jumping to his feet.

"I'd say you're lucky to get away with just that," shot Blaise, looking down his nose at him.

"But he—!"

"—'But he' what? Defended the good name of the witch he's courting? The most powerful witch that Hogwarts has ever seen? The witch who may very well soon be a _Malfoy_ …?" The air in the tent tensed. In that moment, Draco wondered bitterly, _Will she still have me…?_ "I'd hold my tongue, if I were you." Blaise took a threatening step forward, looking over Marcus's massive shoulder with a glare. "A Slytherin does what now?"

Miles sighed through his nose. "'Respects his housemates.'"

"'Respects his housemates,' indeed. And what will happen when you hear, say, a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw speak such scandalous bile about our friend, our Dueling Club Captain, our Student Council President, our dance instructor, our Transfigurations tutor, and our own private Potions Master?"

Miles's face changed, feeling ashamed of his own words earlier. "We're going to shut them down."

"By Merlin, we're going to shut them down. Because a Slytherin does what?" All heads in the tent were now hung in solemn respect. Miles hung his head, too, and closed his eyes.

"'A Slytherin looks out for their own.'"

"'A Slytherin looks out for their own.' We are the greatest House of Hogwarts and we shan't besmirch the Slytherin legacy by acting like twittering, gossiping fools. Now, don't you both agree – " he turned to Draco " – That we all have a game to win?" A beat. "Kiss and make up."

Miles's jaw clenched. He then stiffly extended his hand. Draco's shoulders went tight, but then shook his hand, and all seemed well. Both of their shoulders were patted, and hands were shaken all around, a very masculine display of camaraderie. Tobias came and wiped Miles' nose.

Marcus cleared his throat. "Right, gents. Let's win this game!" They all made sounds of approval, including the second- and third-string players. They made their way to the edge of the tent, and filed out on the field, which was misty with morning dew. Draco couldn't seem to move; Blaise turned around and came to him. They exchanged a very knowing glance.

"Draco," began Blaise in a low whisper. "You told Professor Snape you were fine to play today." Draco only gulped, his eyes and back and calves feeling very hot and tense. "The team is depending on you." He couldn't help but feel that Blaise was reaching. Suddenly, Blaise put his gloved hand on Draco's shoulder, a bit tightly. When Draco looked, he could see how visibly uncomfortable Blaise was. _Of course he's uncomfortable now…he knows how filthy I am, I've become…I'm untouchable. I'm nothing._ His thoughts were quickly interrupted by an extremely stiff and awkward hug.

"Are—?" Draco stammered. "Why are you holding my body with your body?"

Draco heard a stiff sort of sigh; the both of them were extremely conservative people when it came to affection with friends, and neither were quite sure how to continue.

"Er—" Draco cringed. "This is a hug, Draco. I'm hugging you."

"Ahm—" He stiffly patted Blaise's back, and then very awkwardly put his hands on Blaise's shoulders and squeezed…sort of. "Thank you," said Draco, unsure of what else to say. "We can stop now if you like."

"Oh thank God—" Blaise quickly let go and sighed. "Phew. Well." He cleared his throat. "There. Hugs. Right." He cleared his throat again and straightened his robes, then adjusted his gloves. "Cheers."

"Right," said Draco. He took in and let out a big breath.

"Shall we play?" he asked, gesturing outside.

He wasn't sure he felt like playing, but he wasn't sure if he _didn't_ feel like playing. He was wondering what people were saying about them, about Ella. He was worried about the bile that was going to soon be flying around. He was angry and scared.

"Draco, listen," said Blaise, visibly uncomfortable again. He worried that he might get pulled into another awkward hug. "I'm going to tell you something that I think you need to hear. So…listen." He sighed through his nose and closed his eyes. "Stepfather number three was one that I liked. Really. I miss him sometimes, even if I can't recall his name." Draco cringed, but was silent. "He once told me…if you worry too much on what's around you, you'll miss what's ahead of you. There are times when it's okay to just…put on blinders and focus on the road ahead." A beat. "Put an hourglass on it. In four hours, you can start caring again, or…" He trailed off. "You catch the golden snitch, then you can start caring again." He opened his eyes. "Right?"

He nodded, shook Blaise's hand, and silently followed on to the field. He took his place across from Chang. Madam Hooch blew the whistle and released the snitch into the air, and they all kicked off hard from the ground and were airborne. The crowd was cheering, and everything felt uncomfortably high. He rose on his broom, flying high above everyone else, higher than the stands. Draco closed his eyes.

He couldn't do this. He was nothing. He couldn't pretend anymore. Theo knew. Blaise knew. Ella knew… What was left? Forget Quidditch. He had to mend the Vanishing cabinet. He had to pretend that everything was alright, even though it clearly wasn't. He had to do this. He had to kill Dumbledore…or The Dark Lord's anger would be unswift and unmerciful. He was going to kill his family. He was going to kill him. He was going to kill Ella…

 _Ella_ …

Draco's mind was still reeling from that morning, the memory of all four of them lined up in Professor Snape's office. She had confessed everything: the sherry, the Cambius curse, the sleep powder she'd invented...everything. The most-unnerving thing had been watching her beg for mercy on Theo, Blaise, and himself, legs shaking on bloody knees. The most powerful witch he'd ever seen, reduced to wailing, all because of him...because of the punishment he had been given for his father's mistakes.

 _This is your fault, Father_.

A glimmer of gold caught out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to see it. Draco seemed to lock eyes with the snitch, and all went silent. No more thoughts, no more racing heart, no more nausea, no more Father...the snitch was all there was, gleaming like a bright sun. He turned his broom to face it and, with a breath, zoomed forward, so fast his hair flew out of its neatly-combed place.

The snitch zipped through the air, between the two Ravenclaw beaters, which Draco spun through with acrobatic ease. There was no hum of the commentator as he turned over the pitch, no whizzing of the quaffle as it narrowly missed his head when he dove between Blaise and Tobias, no cheers from the crowd when he spun upside-down over Chang's head, who then gave chase behind him... The silence was only broken when he turned too tight on the vaulted stand, and used his legs to kick off hard from them to ricochet himself forward, too fast to see or feel, flying upside-down over the Ravenclaw seeker's head to snatch the snitch clean out of Chang's reach before she could touch it.

Draco looped around to be right-side-up and hovered straight in the center of the field to open his palm, and in it was the bright gleam of glittering gold. The sound came back, heralded in with Madam Hooch's whistle.

"HE'S CAUGHT THE SNITCH! DRACO MALFOY HAS CAUGHT THE GOLDEN SNITCH, IN AN IMPRESSIVE DISPLAY OF AERIAL ACROBATICS! SLYTHERIN WINS, 180 TO 50!"

"SLYTHER-WIN! SLYTHER-WIN! SLYTHER-WIN!" the crowd chanted. "SLYTHER-WIN! SLYTHER-WIN! SLYTHER-WIN!"

 _I really do have better reflexes when I'm tired_.

He was then soon rushed by his team, and the next thing he knew they were all in the Common Room, celebrating. There was a rather annoying amount of confetti, and several kegs of the Singing Ale that Ella had brewed from last year which - as its name suggested - made everyone who drank it burst into song. When Draco had asked her why she had brewed such a ridiculous thing, she simply responded with 'I was curious.' It didn't necessarily get you drunk, but it did fill you with a strange musical euphoria, and any song you chose to sing, all others that drank it would sing with you, in harmony. It didn't take long before the entire dungeon was filled with song, all missing one distinct voice.

"Has anyone seen Ella?" Nobody could respond because they were all singing an impressively harmonic rendition of the Slytherin fight song. Draco rolled his eyes and sneaked down the hallway to the girls' dormitory. He closed the door behind him and got about five steps downward before iron bars shot out and slammed into the opposite wall to form a barrier. A glimmer of a pale face and dark hair came around the corner. "Greengrass!" Her wide eyes got wider as he stuck his arm through the bar to motion her closer. "Astoria!"

The fourth-year gulped timidly, then came towards him. "You know this is the _Girls_ side," she reminded.

"Obviously," he quipped back. "Have you seen Ella?"

She shook her dark head. "Not since this morning," she admitted. She glanced away, then came closer to him, close enough to see her in the torchlight. "She was very upset. She looked as if she had been crying." She paused. "I don't know what's happened between you, but I don't think I care for a boy who makes his girlfriend cry."

"How dare you speak to me that way?" he responded automatically. "I am your Prefect."

"My Prefect that's sneaking across to the _girls'_ dormitory?"

"Are you going to help me or not?" he shot.

"Why should I?" she asked with a frown, crossing her thin arms over her thin chest. "If she doesn't want to see you, then she shouldn't have to. A-And frankly," she said, pointing her finger, "I wouldn't want to see you either. There are lots of nasty things flying around about what happened between you two last night, and I just think it's disgraceful that she's being shamed for the thing you're being praised for!"

Draco's anger flared. "How brave of you to insult me behind bars," he growled.

"I'm not wrong," she shot back. "Now would you kindly move?"

He realized that he was blocking the way out. "Go down to Ella's dorm first," he said. "Then I'll move."

"What if she's not there?" Astoria balked.

"Then you'll tell me that she's not there," Draco answered. She pouted.

"What are you doing?" Draco turned around to see Astoria's sister, Daphne, behind him. He quickly remembered that Daphne was Ella's roommate. He came away from the bars.

"Is Ella with you?" he asked. Daphne put her hands on her hips and gave him an extremely nasty look.

"Are you going to let my sister out or not?" she demanded. Astonished, Draco took a few steps back, to where he was at the doorway, just enough for the bars to go back into the walls and let Astoria pass through. She came timidly and walked passed him to Daphne, who quickly put her arm around her and escorted her out. Under any other circumstance, he might feel quite insulted; but Draco felt deeply ashamed that this entire debacle had dragged Ella's name through the mud. His immediate instinct was to go and kick in the radio and announce to the entire House that he would personally curse the families of _any_ who dared speak such bile about Ella Zamora, but he quickly decided that it was best to find Ella first and apologize. He glanced back to the common room; they were still singing.

Theo came up to Draco with a timid grin. "Hey," he said.

"Hey."

"Good game today," he said. Draco nodded in thanks. "Er..." There was a tense pause. "Listen, about... _what happened_..." Draco's shoulders stiffened. "...you know..." He sighed. "Well. I don't like to think that I'm a fair-weather friend. And..." Draco wanted to vomit. "...Well...about your father..." Theo sighed again. "I guess what I'm trying to say is..." Theo extended his hand. "Good game today, mate." He smiled.

Theodore Nott was Draco's oldest friend. His father was a Death Eater, too, and the Notts were one of the extremely select few that Draco's father considered equal. They used to...well, they didn't ever play. Playtime wasn't allowed. It was improper for a Malfoy to be running around outside, screaming and playing in the leaves. They could talk and play cards, go for long walks in the gardens...but they never played. They just...weren't allowed.

"You can shake my hand, you know," Theo said. Draco laughed a little at himself and shook his hand in thanks. "Like some of this?" He offered a sip of his butterbeer. Draco shook his head. "Are you sure?" He shook his head again with a grin. "Please yourself, then," said Theo, sipping. He wasn't sure how to feel. "It really was a good game...but perhaps let it last a little longer next time? A forty-minute game isn't quite worth the climb, wouldn't you say?" _The game lasted forty minutes?_ "Sometimes I think that Quidditch matches should all have a standardized time. Say...two hours?"

"Why two hours?" Draco asked.

"Well, Quidditch matches can last for days, making it impossible to plan around. And if they only last forty minutes...?" He sighed. "What if a Quidditch match lasts for two hours, no matter which team's Seeker catches the Snitch. Oh, sure, you still get the 150 points for catching it, but then the Seeker can double as a fourth chaser, and then make the games more interesting?" Draco had to admit that it _did_ sound like it would be more interesting. "Well, I don't know who you'd have to talk to to get that sorted, though."

"It'd likely be more trouble than its worth," Draco replied. "You'd likely have to be a respected Quidditch Pro with at least a World Cup championship under your belt to have enough sway to change the rules like that."

Theo nodded. There was a pause as the Common Room had somehow erupted in a rendition of "The Witch of the West". He then smiled. "How's this 'small talk' working out for you?"

He felt his bones ache. "I don't know anymore," he admitted.

His oldest friend forced a smile. "I suppose we British aren't accustomed to expressing such feelings openly, but..." He cleared his throat. "Should you need it..."The words almost seemed to taste of sick upon his thin lips. "Well, do me this kindness, and at least show me that you know what I'm trying to say?"

Draco had a feeling that he knew what he was trying to say, but he wasn't sure he was ready to believe it. He hadn't much recollection of the night before, except for fragments of a very vivid and pleasant dream. He remembered waking up to the sun, his bones cracking and his skin tearing and stretching and shrinking back to its nakedness in the middle of the cold forest. He remembered begging Ella to go back inside, watching her terrified face as he changed, her love turn to fear, then to loathing.

"Did I kill anything" he timidly asked.

Theo scoffed a bit, then shook his head. "Blaise said you killed a few rabbits and a badger, but he thinks the badger was already dead." Draco nodded somberly, trying to force a smile on his face for the sake of the rest of the party. "I was worried you might bring on the spiders... I hear there are Acromantulas deep in the forest." A pause. "Listen, I know it's none of my business, but..." Draco's eyebrow quirked. "Why were Ella's knees bloody this morning?"

The question was like a kick in the guts. "I..." Draco began stammering. The words to describe what he had done felt so sour and bitter and rancid all at once that he feared he may actually vomit. "I threw a rock at her—"

"—You did what?!" whispered Theo in shock. "Why?!" he gasped.

"I don't know—" He caught himself from sobbing, certainly not wanting to do this in the middle of a victory celebration. "—I was just so angry...I was humiliated... I know it's not right but I just—I saw red." He sighed. "I know it's not an excuse—"

"—Hang on, hang on...let's give blame where it's due, too. She did you wrong as well—"

"—That doesn't give me the right to throw things at her!" whispered Draco in horror. "I've been trying to ask the girls where she is, but—"

"—Why ask them? They're not going to tell you anything. Haven't you heard what people have been saying? The whole _school_ is saying—" Theo looked as if he didn't want to continue the thought, so he simply cleared his throat. Draco felt curiously, furiously ill. " —Well, I can tell you that it's likely better than the alternative."

"How—? How could dragging Ella's dignity through the mud be better than the alternative?"

"You mean you'd like the whole school to know your secret?" gasped Theo. "You'll be expelled. You'll be added to a—"he gulped "—a _registry_. They'll tag you, like an animal."

 _I am lower than an animal now..._ thought Draco bitterly.

"I know that it's not _right_ at all, but...I mean...you gave her your ring, didn't you? That means you intended to marry her anyway. And what kind of man would you be if you didn't follow through with your words? A man stands by his chosen love, even when the world slanders their name."

 _She won't even touch me now...why would she?_ "We all seemed to support the werewolf registry without question." Draco's voice was so low, he wasn't even sure if he was hearing it from his lips or from inside his head. He shook his head, as if to dislodge those thoughts. "I need to find Ella."

"Good luck," said Theo. "Nobody knows where she went."

Draco's heart pounded in panic. _Did they expel her_? He racked his brain. "Professor Snape might know," he offered.

"Why would he know?"

"Because he's her Godfather, that's why," said Draco, now full of resolve. "I'm going to find him."

"Wait-wait-wait, you can't just leave the party—it's _your_ party!"

"It's my party, I can leave if I want to." And Draco left.

He climbed quickly out of the Common Room and went straight to Professor Snape's office. He himself had just returned, it seemed; Draco knocked as he opened the door. Snape glanced over his shoulder and frowned in question; he motioned him in.

"Sir," Draco greeted, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"Mister Malfoy," he greeted. "It seems as if you play rather well when extraordinarily tired," he commented. He turned and faced him. "How are you?" He seemed sincere. He wasn't certain how to answer, so he said nothing. "Something you needed?"

"Have you seen Ella anywhere?"

He paused, his face neutral. "If you haven't found her yourself, I expect she doesn't yet wish to be found," he answered.

"I hadn't been extensively searching, sir..." Draco's face felt a little red. "I was only wondering if you'd tell me where to look," he said.

" _I_ wouldn't know where to look were I to find her, Mister Malfoy. _I_ haven't been courting her for the passed year." Draco felt a strange sense of embarrassment, humiliation, triggering more than a few memories of his father.

"Are you going to expel her, sir?" Draco heard his own voice crack, causing his knees to shake.

Snape looked away and sighed through his hooked nose. "That _would_ be the easy thing to do, wouldn't it? Her grandmother wished for her transfer to Beauxbatons for the remainder of her education." He sighed again, circled around at his desk, and sat. He dipped his quill in some ink and began grading the pile of scrolls in front of him. "Would you trust her again with your potions?" he then asked without looking up.

Draco wasn't sure what to say. Just the thought of _needing_ something for the rest of his life, needing to _take_ something for the rest of his life, was utterly...what was the word for it? It wasn't terrifying, it wasn't quite humiliating, either... What was the word for the feeling that was when you felt as if you'd never be cheerful again? He was sure that word existed, but he couldn't think of it. He wasn't cursed; a curse could be broken. He wasn't sick; you could get through being sick and you would eventually heal. He wasn't sad; you would always be happy again after you were sad, eventually. This was a new feeling, and Draco couldn't begin to understand it.

He had grown up knowing that he was thrice-blessed; first for being born a Wizard, second for being born a Pureblood, and third being born a Malfoy. When he was to attend Hogwarts, _he_ was supposed to be the most-popular, the most-beloved...not Harry Potter. Draco was the one that was supposed to be the best flyer, since he'd been on broomstick since he was six. _He_ was supposed to have the best friends, be the richest, be the most sought-after. He wasn't supposed to have a rival. He was supposed to rule Hogwarts as its King. All of that changed when he was eleven. All of it changed again when he was fifteen.

Ella was the first person in the world to have sought him out for something other than his name or his disdain for Potter or his fortune or his affluence. She was already rich and well-established in her own country, so there was no reason to drag him into her games, too... That day in the Forbidden Forest, the first Saturday they'd spent alone, those words: 'I just wanted to be alone with you.' That was the day they found the giant and set him free. That was the day they shared a butterbeer at Hogsmeade, and quickly learned that Ella _did not_ like it. That was the day they tried every single type of fudge Honeydukes had to offer, and felt so sick going home. That was the day Ella tried to pay with dragots instead of galleons, and it was the first time Draco ever saw an octagonal coin. Stupidly, he couldn't remember the actual date.

Slowly, after that day, Hogwarts smiled on him. Slowly, after that day, he was becoming someone else, someone that others... _liked._ Everyone liked Ella, and Ella liked him, so, naturally, everyone liked him, too. He somehow felt cheated, and then all of it went away when she brought that bloody chicken of hers onto the Quidditch pitch. Drill after drill after drill, he flew until he was so stiff that he couldn't move. That first game of the season was won, and then again and again...the next thing he knew, he was the Seeker that had broken Gryffindor's streak of winning the House cup. All of it was, ultimately, thanks to Ella.

"If I said 'yes,'" Draco began, "would that mean you'd have her stay?"

Snape glanced up through his eyebrows, then put his quill down. He leaned his elbows on his desk and brought his clasped hand to his pursed lips in thought.

"I don't want her to leave, sir," Draco said. "She wouldn't have done what she did had I been honest with her from the beginning." He took a step forward. "If you must expel someone, then expel me." He felt himself projected over his own body, watching himself say these words. _You sodding moron!_ screamed his consciousness. _How the bloody hell do you expect to kill Albus Dumbledore if you're expelled?! Do you not understand what's at stake?!_

"I have no intention of expelling you, Mister Malfoy," said Snape, Draco feeling only a mild bit of solace. "Nor do I have any intention of expelling Miss Zamora." He let out an audible sigh in relief. "I will be personally making your potions from this day forward, until you learn to make it yourself." Draco supposed that it was good enough news. After all, who better to keep the secret than himself? "I trust you will rest easy knowing that both Misters Zabini and Nott have consented to being put under the Fidelius charm to keep your secret."

"And Ella?"

Snape locked eyes with him. "Do you know how sorry she is?" He was overcome with the feeling of rocks hitting the bottom of his stomach. "Had it crossed your cunning little mind that the guilt she is capable of is one that of which we can only dream? The girl was raised a Catholic, for Merlin's sake—you think she'll ever let it slip? I had to physically restrain her from Obliviating herself." Snape sighed through his nose. "She's volunteered herself for Saturday detention, every week until she graduates, with no more holidays home or trips to Hogsmeade. I talked her down to a month of scrubbing floors with Filch."

"Scrubbing _floors_ —?!" Draco wanted to scream. He didn't. He never did...but the thought of her scrubbing floors with that filthy squib, reduced to a servant...! And it was all his fault... He simply stood there, silently, thinking about how he knew he'd never feel joy again. He didn't know how long he had been standing there like that...he didn't know what to do next. He felt so utterly alone. He didn't know why, but Professor Snape suddenly appeared in front of him, his hand on his shoulders. Draco looked up. Snape was looking at him with...pity?

"Don't you dare pity me," growled Draco, shoving his hands away.

"This is not _pity_ , Mister Malfoy. This is compassion, something far more powerful." Draco's chest tightened as he took a step away. Snape took out his wand, then bid Draco do the same. "I know you are gifted. I know you are skilled. You can control your emotions, and discipline your mind, and keep it clear when no others can. This is why I am going to show you something." He watched as Snape cast, with a great flourishing arm in a great circle above his head, barely above a whisper, " _Expecto Patronum_ ," and a silvery white doe came leaping out of his wand, dancing around the office and then leaping over the bookshelves, through the wall. It was beautiful to behold.

"Professor?"

"There will be times in your life when sorrow will wash over you in waves. There will be times where you will feel as if you were nothing." Draco looked down at his feet. "There will be times in your life when nothing can cheer you, nothing can comfort you. You will feel afraid, and you won't know what you're even afraid of." He choked on his own breath, closing his eyes tight as Snape continued. "Every voice in your head will tell you how insignificant you are, how the only reason you're tolerated is simply because everyone else is afraid of you." His words were cutting, and to his horror, Draco felt hot tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "You won't feel sad. You'll simply feel as if you'll never be cheerful again. You accept the fact that the sun will never again shine upon your face, and that you'll somehow feel that you deserve it."

"Professor, please..." Draco begged.

"Raise your wand," said Snape. Draco obeyed, only in hopes that it would make him stop. "You have trouble with the Patronus charm," he said. "I've seen you in class, attempting it. You have horrors in your past that you hide, perhaps for good reason. You can't think of a happy memory because nothing stands out. Your world is gray." A sob broke from Draco's lips. "It was the same for me," he said then, causing Draco's eyes to open in surprise. "Try instead: Don't think of a moment when you felt happy. Think of the moment, the _first_ moment in your life, where you felt that you truly mattered." He frowned in confusion, and yet a part of him understood. "You have all the weapons you need, Mister Malfoy. Now fight."

It was like a spell. A memory immediately came to mind, like a page being tur _ned in a book. He was suddenly there, in his mind's eye, leaving Florean Fortescue's with an ice cream in either hand. Ella was there, sitting on a bench. Diagon Alley was a faded memory, and all that was colorful was her cranberry red cardigan. She was looking down in her hands at her wand, which was snapped in two. The wand box next to her was from Ollivander's, nestled at her side. Draco came to her and shook the cone at her face. She looked up and gasped a bit._

 _"What's that?" she asked, her eyes still swollen and red from crying._

 _"For you," he answered, shaking it at her again. She seemed rather skeptical of it, but he figured that she'd like the bright pink color. She took the cone with a quirked eyebrow and then stared at it. "If you don't like it, you can have mine instead." He sat next to her, and took a bite of his own caramel apple ice cream. She seemed a little nervous, but then took a bite of her cone, and her tear-filled frown immediately turned to giggling laughter._

 _"Oh wow!" she laughed. "That's incredible! I've never had cotton candy ice cream before!"_

 _He frowned. "It's called 'fairy floss...'"_

 _"Whatever." She took another big bite, the cream smearing all over her full lips, sighing happily. She smiled at him. "Can I have a taste of yours anyway?" He couldn't think of why not, so he shrugged and offered her the cone. He expected her to take it in her hand, but she simply leaned over and licked the tip. He could smell her hair, and it was so distinct. "Oh my Lord_ — _that's like eating Christmas!" she exclaimed. "I still like this better, though," she said, going back to her own cone. He felt oddly happy watching her be so glad. She then stopped, frowned, and looked back at him. "Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked all of a sudden._

 _Unable to think of a real answer, Draco shrugged and said "Because you're letting me." And Ella smiled._

 _The memory glared and became white, silv_ ery light, and the light rose within him, filling him up, and a flare burst from the tip of his wand. He opened his eyes and waved his wand high over his head as he cast " _Expecto Patronum!"_

From the tip of his wand came forth a wave of white light, which sparkled in a silvery whisp. He thought of the ice cream, of the wand shop, of com _ing back to the forest after they had returned from Hogsmeade, and how they found the fir tree. They took their wands together and waved them over the bark. His wand carved their names, Draco + Ella, while hers formed the heart that cradled it_. " _Expecto Patronum!"_ The whisp formed a body and began to run around the office. " _Expecto Patronum!_ " A feeling of belonging washed ov _er him, as the memory of sharing hot cider as they watched the Pumpkin Carving contest flowed through his body. It was the first time he could remember thinking: this is right. "Expecto Patronum!"_ Light filled the office so brilliantly that Snape squinted, and a great and powerful stag, all made of silver light, pranced and posed proudly. He looked into its silver eyes, and a wave of joy unlike any other swept over him.

"Can you...?"

The stag turned and passed through the office door, and Draco quickly bolted out to follow, his wand helping lead the way. The stag weaved up the stairs, and Draco followed. It stopped and turned to him, then followed the light towards the main courtyard, and then out towards the Quidditch pitch. He ran across the field and soon found himself along the lake, following his guardian to the great old oak tree, only to find another silvery animal dancing around it. Draco stopped in shock as a whispy-silver doe came and kissed his stag on the nose, and they both disappeared. He looked up, and there was Ella, wand in hand, sitting on a swing that she seemed to have fashioned out of conjured vines. She seemed to swell in shock, and then quickly turned away. He felt sobered.

He watched as she sat there on that swing, dressed all in black. Black stockings, black shoes, flouncy black skirt and black jumper...the only glimmer of color was the glittering green of the Slytherin ring on her left hand. He then realized that he was still in his full Quidditch uniform, and how ridiculous he likely looked, running around the school chasing a silver stag. He wondered, briefly, how many saw him. He then wondered what she was thinking. He thought, momentarily, about using a bit of legilimency, but that seemed wrong. Draco came towards her, and saw her shrink into her own shoulders. The air around her seemed to tense and grow dark...was she using the Patronus charm to cheer herself up, too? He then smiled; her Patronus was a doe, and his was a stag. She gasped when Draco's hands came over both of hers, and then slid down the vines. He pulled the swing towards him, took a few steps back, and then pushed away.

The vines creaked, but held, and he pushed again when she swung back, a little harder this time. He heard a gasp, but then it turned to faint laughter when she swung her legs out. Her shoes clicked together, and they transfigured into the green slippers that glimmered. He pushed with more force, and she swung higher, her voice lilting up into the canopy with a light laugh. He smiled, and pushed harder when she swung back.

"Higher!" she giggled. When she swung back, he caught her, and then leaped onto the swing's seat with his feet on either side of her hips. She screamed in delight as he used his legs to push them higher, and he felt her arms come up around his calves. They were soon moving in perfect sync as the vines lifted them higher and higher, so high that he wondered if they would swing into the canopy itself with each arc. Draco felt a strange joy, as if he were on a cloud as they rose and fell together, swinging then falling then swinging up and back again.

"We're gonna jump!" he announced. Ella shrieked with excitement.

"No we can't!" she laughed.

"On three!"

"Ohmigoodness!"

"One—!" he counted as they reached the peak of the arch.

"No-no-no—! We can't!" she laughed when they swung backwards.

"Two—!" he counted when they swung high again.

"Draco, oh my God!" she squealed, their momentum at a peak.

"THREE—!" The two of them leaped forward. Ella transformed into her raven form as Draco flew forward, his arms out like he was flying. He turned on his back and flipped onto the soft grassy knoll, rolling downward, laughing so hard his stomach hurt. The raven flew and dove and flipped around, cawing in delight, then falling down to his side. He quickly snatched her wrist and pulled her down with him. She didn't object.

They lay next to each other in the soft grass, laughing hard for so long that it was likely her face was hurting as much as his was by the time they stopped. He turned to look at her. Her smile faded; her fingers laced with his. Her gorgeous brown eyes began to well with tears, and he heard her choke.

"Ella—"She put her fingers to his lips and turned on her side to face him. She looked as if she were going to say something, but she quickly retracted, and her hand came up over her mouth and nose as she began to cry softly. He panicked at the thought of her crying again; he quickly pulled her close into a tight embrace. She stopped and went stiff. _You fool,_ he cursed at himself. _Stop. She doesn't want you touching her. Werewolves are dangerous, remember? They can't be trusted..._

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his neck. "I'm really, really sorry." He felt her fingers curl into his quidditch robes and grip tight. "Can you ever forgive me?" she whimpered.

A hard scoff, almost choking, came bursting from his chest. Ella quickly sat up, aghast. He grabbed her arm to keep her from storming off. "I'm sorry— I just—" He laughed again. "I don't know...can _you_ ever forgive _me_?"

"What?!" she balked, incredulous. "How are you aski—?!" She buried her face in her hands and growled loudly into them. "How can you _possibly_ be the one that's feeling guilty over this?! You're not the one that was wrong!" She flopped over on her side and rolled on her stomach, giving the ground a few pounds with her fist. "You — are not — the one — that's wrong!" she shouted into the soft grass. _Is she...throwing a tantrum?_ Ella quickly flipped over and sat up, burying her face in her knees, her whole head covered with the mop of her pretty hair.

"You mean..." He wasn't sure if this was the wisest thing to say next, but he was going to ask it anyway. "You're not angry with me?"

She lifted her head, her eyebrows tilted up in disbelief. "Why would I be angry with _you_? I mean—sure, I'm mad that you didn't tell me...but I _broke the Potioneer's Vow_. I broke the vow of sacred trust. I purposefully gave someone something that I knew wouldn't work—" A sob rose from her throat. She quickly turned away, her face now hidden behind a curtain of curls. "I can never do this again..." she said. "I can never brew a potion again."

"What are you talking about?" he gasped. "This was one mistake—"

"—A mistake that cost at least _four people_ their lives," she argued, looking back at him. "You'll never trust me again. _I'll_ never trust me again." She sighed deeply. "I just... How can I continue as a Potioneer? How can I hope to ever brew again? Now I have to reevaluate my entire life and come up with a new plan..." She then scoffed. "Y'know, that Tonks woman..." She trailed off. "She offered me a place in... She said I should come to the Ministry of Magic when I graduate and become an Auror." Ella shook her head at the thought, a wistful smile on her face. "I turned her into a bird with a special curse that only Witches of my bloodline can cast and break, and she offers me a job. Isn't that crazy?"

Draco frowned. "Why?" he asked.

"Well..." Ella twitched her nose, which meant she was considering how to word something difficult. "She asked me why I chose a bird. I told her it was because she could fly far away..." She sighed and twitched her nose again. "Do you know the details of the Cambiatus curse?" He shook his head. "It's something that only the Christophes know how to do, because the curse itself is a family secret. I can't tell you too many details—I'm only supposed to pass on that to my children—but I can tell you that it's a curse you cast wordlessly _and_ wandlessly, and you just sort of..." Ella looked conflicted, as if she were trying to tell a secret _without_ telling a secret. "It's a special spell that only works if you really feel it." A beat. "I guess I wanted to change her into something that could get away safely...something small and simple, insignificant to a predator...something nonthreatening."

"That just sounds like a transfiguration..."

Ella shook her head. "When you transfigure someone, you have to have a clear picture of exactly what you want. Also, transfigurations are reversible. The Cambiatus curse isn't. You can only ever change back to your own form if the Christophe that cast it changes you back before the sun sets. Otherwise, the change becomes permanent."

A beat. "So, wait—last year, when you cast it on—"

"—Yup."

"So she could have been _permanently_ a—"

"—Yup." Draco couldn't help but laugh, which caused Ella to look at him, agape. "It's not funny!"

"Yes it is!" he cackled. "So, you can _permanently_ turn anyone into any animal you want?"

"Not just animals. You can turn them to anything. But if you turn them to a tree, or to a chair, or to stone..." She sighed. "Well, let's just say it's a particularly nasty curse, and a rather temperamental one, too. Every time you cast it, you risk killing the person—or worse! They'll live out eternity as a statue, thirsting and starving, but never dying...so they say." She groaned. "And I cast it on an Auror. I should be in jail."

"But she offered you a _job_?"

"I know! It's crazy. She said..." Ella closed her eyes, cringing. "She said that the sign of a hero is someone whose body reacts before their brain can." Draco didn't know what that meant; it frankly sounded like someone who was inherently foolish. She sighed. "I really don't wanna be an Auror."

"You don't have to do anything that you don't want to do," said Draco, realizing how much he wished someone had said that to him at some, any point in his lifetime.

Ella rolled her eyes. "That's a nice sentiment, but I think that you and I both know it's not true." She hugged her knees to her chest and looked to him. "If I don't make a firm decision and stick to it, my grandmother's deciding for me. Not that I blame her, I guess..." She looked away, her chin resting on her kneecaps. "She's very well-meaning. Really. She wants to make sure that I'm well taken care of...and that the Christophe line doesn't end."

Draco felt sick at the thought of Ella being put to use as some broodmare. He didn't even know why he then asked: "If she's so bent on keeping her line going, then why isn't she pushing you to marry some French wizard?" _That's easily the stupidest thing you could have possibly said, you tosser. Well done._

Ella then grinned, sat up straight, looked down her nose at him, and said—in a horribly mocking French accent—"'Yew szink a French wizzarrd will ever 'ave yew, yew wild lee-ttle minkeey?!'" She then burst out laughing. "I'm not even being mean; that's literally what she said." He couldn't help but snicker a bit through his nose. A cool breeze came, gently coming its fingers through her hair. She looked back to him and smiled weakly. "It's okay if you wanna break up with me. I wouldn't blame you at all."

His eyes went wide in shock, and he imagined that he was giving her a rather dumbfounded look...which he was. "Hang on," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You think that _I_ want to break up with _you?"_

It was Ella's turn to give a dumbfounded look. "...Don't you?"

"I thought you wanted to break up with _me._ "

"...Why?"

"Why—?! Because—!" He didn't know how to continue. He was a filthy half-breed, now, less than human, unworthy of love from her, from anyone... Perhaps it was best if they broke it off? He didn't have the right to condemn her to such a life, especially when she had such a bright future ahead of her. He didn't feel her using legilimency in the back of his mind, but she still seemed to know what he was thinking. She put her hand on his forearm and squeezed. She then came closer and cupped his face with both of her hands.

"Look at me," she said. "Look into my eyes. Can you see me? Hear me?" He nodded. She took in a big breath, and let it out. "I don't care about that. I mean, I care that you didn't tell me...but I can promise you that the only person that I'm angry with is your father. I think he's the one that should have been punished, and not you." Draco didn't know what to say or think. She kept her eyes locked with his as she took the glove off his left hand, then his right, and laid on the ground next to her. She came up on her knees and pushed his robes off his shoulders.

"What are you doing...?"

"I wanna see," she answered as she pulled his heavy quidditch robes off his long arms. She took them by the collar and folded them neatly at her side. Her deft fingers went to his hips, and a violent shiver went up and down his spine feeling her fingers on his bare skin when she tugged at the warm green jumper.

"Ella, what are you doing?!" he gasped, falling backwards into the grass.

"I wanna see where you got bit." His right hand quickly clapped over the bite mark on his left forearm. Her eyebrow quirked, seemingly satisfied at the fact that he gave it away so easily. "What do you think is going to happen? It's not like I can catch anything from touching it..." Draco looked away shyly, a flush rising in his cheeks. She offered her hand. Draco hesitated.

 _It's just her hand,_ he reminded himself. _You're not going to hurt her by touching her hand. She won't be tainted by a simple touch_. He took her hand, and she clasped his in both of hers. Her left hand held onto his as her right slid the long knitted sleeve of his jumper up to his elbow. He looked down at his once perfect skin, marred with a great, horrific scar, giant and oblong, stretching across his forearm from front to back. The memory was still so clear, so nightmarish...the morning they had left for the trial, the Dark Lord himself had presented Draco to Fenrir Greyback, right so his father could watch as he was bitten just before he was sent off to Azkaban. He remembered the way it burned so cold and hot all at once, how it felt to feel his own flesh ripping and tearing as they held his eyes open to watch the full moon rise. These thoughts were interrupted by her tender touch, tracing the teeth marks with her fingertips.

Ella's face wasn't twisted with disgust or marred with fear. She appeared neutral enough; her eyes were full of concern, compassion...he tried to read her, but her emotions and thoughts were too fast to see. She smiled at him then and bent; Draco felt a kiss on the werewolf bite so tender that he nearly wept. He closed his eyes, so desperately afraid she would see him cry again. Her hand came to cup his cheek, and he felt her forehead against his.

"Say you forgive me," she whispered.

He laughed through his nose, a bubble of joy filling his heart. "Only if you'll say you forgive me," he replied.

"On three, then."

"One."

"Two."

"Three—"

"I forgive you," they harmonized. Smiles and sighs of relief came from both of them.

"I really am sorry," she said softly, pulling away. "I'm sorry for what I did, for accusing you of cheating on me with Pansy..."

Draco gave a crooked grin. "I'm sorry that I shut you out all summer. I'm sorry that I kept this secret from you, and refused to come clean even when you were asking...and I'm so, so sorry that I threw a rock at you—"

"—I hit you, too—"

"—You _slapped_ me, you didn't throw a rock at my knees." Ella looked down and shrugged. "Did you go to the hospital wing?" She shook her head. "Why?" he gasped. "Everyone was saying that you came into the dorm with your knees all bloody—"

"—Can we please not talk about what everyone was saying about me?" He felt extremely sobered and angry all at once as he was reminded of the scandalous slander and how she might be feeling about it. "I mean, I guess it's better than the alternative—"

"—A grim day, indeed, when dragging your good name through the mud with scandalous implications of your virtues is somehow the better option—"

"—Draco." He looked in her eyes, that were quite serious. "Would it be _so terrible_ if we actually were doing what everyone thinks we are?" His heart stopped, a lump caught in his throat. Every thought process he'd been having came to a dead halt. She must have noticed, for she looked away and said: "Wow, nothing..."

"I..." He realized he hadn't any idea on what to say. What were you supposed to say? The protocol was quite clear on relations before marriage among purebloods: there were none. If they were officially betrothed , they wouldn't even be allowed in the same room unless chaperones were present. Was it really that different in America? Were all of these constraints purely cultural? He supposed that their ways were better, but America had produced Ella...England head only produced him.

He once believed England to be the center of the Universe, with his father as its King; how wrong he was...

Realizing he'd been silent for far too long, he took her hand. She didn't recoil or treat him with disgust. She didn't look at him with disdain or pity. He was then reminded of the promise he'd made her barely a month ago.

"I...need your help," he said, slowly enunciating every word. She grinned and nodded.

"Yes, you do," she agreed.

Draco didn't know what came next.

"You know, I've never been one of those people that could really just care about anything. I always have to have a reason to care..."

His eyes frowned but his mouth smiled. "What about me?" She furrowed her brow in question. "Remember? First time in the forest, you said you didn't need a reason to want to be with me."

Ella laughed. "Call yourself the only exception, then." His heart swelled so full he felt it might burst. "I really, really like you." Her face went delightfully red and she looked down shyly. "I don't wanna break up."

"Well, neither do I," he began. "I just..." He gulped. "I think you and I both know that it would be unfair to you were we to stay together." Ella looked up as if she had been slapped. "Be reasonable," he insisted. "To condemn you to a life with me now—"

"—'Now?' What do you mean, 'now?' What's changed?"

"What do you mean, 'what's changed?!'" He demanded. "I'm a—" He stopped, the very thought of the word on his tongue tasting foul.

"Werewolf." He looked up. "Say it out loud. Werewolf. You're a Werewolf." Draco looked away, humiliated. She squeezed his hand. "I don't care." He looked up in disbelief. "You need me to say it again? Fine. I — don't — care. You are a Werewolf now and I don't care."

"Ella, you can't have any sort of fulfilling life—"

"—Stop telling me what I can and cannot do!" They looked away from each other. She let go of his hand and sat straight up on her feet, her back straight and jaw parallel to the ground. "So you're sick, right? You have a disease. And diseases are meant to be cured. And that's what I'm going to do." She closed her eyes and took in a breath. "I am going to be the Witch that cures Lycanthropy." There was so much resolve in her voice that he almost believed her; almost.

"There's no cure for this curse," he said bleakly. "You can't. It's impossible—"

"—Said the _wizard_ attending _magic school_?" She was giving him an extremely serious look. "Nothing is going to stop me from doing this. When I put my mind to something, I conquer it, no matter what. I'm curing Lycanthropy and that's that, god dammit."

"But Ella—"

"—You don't believe I can?" It wasn't that he didn't believe she could; it was that he didn't believe _anyone_ could. "Fine. It'll be all the sweeter when I prove you wrong."

* * *

What an emotional chapter.

There's a line that James Potter says about how he'd choose anything other than Slytherin, and Draco Malfoy says an extremely similar thing in the first book about choosing which house to be in. I can't remember the quote, but it was a really interesting parallel. We know that James grew up for Lily, but what about the bullying jerk we never saw? James was basically this rich kid that was the product of two elderly people going "well let's see if this still works" and WHOOP there it is...

A stag represents nobility and pride. I think that's a cool thing. Anyway, more plot points, more quidditch, some fun memories...ah, I'm rambling. Thanks so much to my guest reviewer, PancakeStack, SabrinaJasmine, and HeartofAspen, as always! More to come soon...stay tuned!


	20. Chapter 20

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 21**

* * *

"Thanks again for helping with this," said Josephine as she removed her gloves and threw them in the nearby bin. "That Polvosueño stuff is revolutionary. You'll go down in history, you know." The door shut, and they were greeted by a taupe hallway with florescent lights.

Ella removed her helmet and checked her hair in the mirror. A few twists with her wand and it was back to its wild, curly perfection, swept elegantly to one side. She grinned. "It's definitely going on my Chocolate Frog card, that's for sure."

Josephine smiled; her other friends called her Jo but Ella thought that Josephine was a much more appropriate name for a witch. "How was your camping trip with Theo, by the way? I don't think I ever asked." She plucked the clipboard off the nail and walked with Ella down the hall to her office.

"Great, as always," she answered, opening the door for Josephine. They walked inside and removed their work robes. "I'm frankly shocked that I was even allowed to go, all things considered… But I guess I'm not necessarily a suspect in the murder trial."

She scoffed, putting her feet up on her desk as she dipped her occamy feather quill into the ink pot, and scratching out notes. "April 13th, 2001," she mumbled to herself as she wrote. They were examining—rather closely—an extremely aggressive Mountain Troll, and needing _gargantuan_ amounts of Polvosueño to keep it sedated. Ella's most-famous invention had made her richer than she thought possible from a single thing; her most-profitable demographic was the over-tired Witch that had over-active children that just wouldn't go to sleep. Ella wasn't sure how much she _liked_ the thought of her invention being used to drug children, but the sweet taste of being wealthy on her own and making something of herself soon smothered any bitterness she may have felt about it. Now that magizoologists were using it to sedate aggressive large creatures, a whole new demographic may have been opened.

"I'm happy to hear that your business hasn't suffered at all," she mentioned, adjusting her glasses. She likely needed new ones, but that wasn't Ella's business.

"I guess the world will never want for aggressive animals and tired mothers," she deadpanned.

Josephine laughed. "As a lesbian, I'll never know."

"Hey! You could have kids someday…maybe adopt a baby?"

"My animals are my children, Ella. I'm fine with that." The voice of Ella's grandmother rang in her ear about how a Witch's life is incomplete without children. But who was she to judge anyone on their choices? Ella wanted children, and marriage—ideally the former after the latter—but she didn't think that choice was an attack on someone else's…was it? _No, certainly not,_ she quickly decided. _Someone else's choices are not an attack on mine._

"I'm happy to have found a career that will always need me," Ella mentioned, deciding to lounge on the old sofa that was covered in files. "I'm also fabulously grateful that my grandmother has decided to take over the manufacturing of my inventions… I'll tell you: _that_ was a chore, in and of itself…" She sighed. "The hardest thing was to find and re-train the old Potioneers that used to manage the factory floors. I'm just so glad that they were all still living in the UK."

"You lead a charmed life, indeed. Not every potioneer has the factory of their ancestors at their disposal….but a Spelling always pays their debts." Ella couldn't help but laugh. An owl came swooping in the open window and dropped a letter on the desk. "Oh, goody—the test results from down the street!" Josephine put her feet down and quickly opened the envelope, her bright green eyes almost glowing through her thick frames. The smile quickly turned to a frown. "What the…?"

"What?"

Josephine turned the parchment to face Ella. "It's got rabies." Ella was shocked.

"I'm sorry… _rabies_?"

Josephine nodded. "Rabies."

"How—?" She shook her head in disbelief. "Can a magical creature _get_ rabies? I thought it was just some nasty disease that dogs got."

"Apparently," she said, looking back at the parchment. "Rabies is contracted through bites and scratches in the Muggle world…dogs, cats, raccoons… My mum was a vet for years; she saw rabies all the time! Maybe there's a strain that can affect magical creatures?"

"Oh, Lord," groaned Ella, her mind reeling. "Please don't let this affect my Lycanthropes…"

"You keep yours out of the woods and safe at St. Mungo's," said Josephine without looking up. "It should be fine… Maybe we'll see if we can't give it a shot of some kind. There's no cure for rabies. Unless _you_ can somehow come up with a miracle cure, we'll have to euthanize this poor troll."

Ella cringed. "Isn't that a little extreme?"

"This is a preemptive strike," said Josephine. "In the Muggle world, there's no real 'cure' for rabies, only a vaccine. There's not any treatment for animals. If a human gets rabies, it's a different story. We could _try_ giving it some strain of vaccine, but it might be kinder to simply euthanize the animal and harvest blood for the sake of experiment. You can have as many litres as you like to work with. I don't want to endanger everyone in the rescue because of a rabid troll."

She sighed through her nose and eventually nodded. Ella always liked animals, but certainly not on the level that her mother had. Mama was a brilliant magizoologist and often made her own salves and tonics for any sick animals she'd had. Ella hadn't ever recalled any cases of rabies back in Albany, but she wasn't a Muggleborn, like Josephine. It was a hard reality to face, that death is often the only cure for certain diseases. Trolls weren't intelligent creatures by any stretch of the imagination, but that didn't mean they didn't deserve a place on the surface of the planet...

"How will you do it?" Ella asked. "Euthanize the troll?"

"An injectable," Josephine answered. "It's like overdosing on Morphine." Ella blinked. "Er, this ridiculously powerful painkiller that is used for extreme cases of pain, like recovering from surgery or a caesarian section when in childbirth." Ella tilted her head in question. "A super-powerful feel-good potion that you don't drink, but is injected directly into your bloodstream. The point is that the troll will feel no pain. In fact, it'll be the happiest it's ever been before it dies."

"That's good, then, I suppose," she conceded. No-Majs were truly rather ingenious… "I suppose it's much kinder than just sticking it in the sunlight," she joked.

"Oh, _much_ kinder!" agreed Josephine, her quill now scratching on various parchment scrolls. "Sunlight is a horrible, traumatic death for trolls. I wish they didn't have to go through so much pain…" Her Hufflepuff was truly showing… "Do you know why trolls turn to stone in the sunlight?" Ella shook her head 'no.' "Vitamin D."

"What's Vitamin D?"

"Well…" She popped her neck, trying to think of the best way to explain it. "Vitamin D is a kind of vitamin you get from sitting in the sunlight. It helps you absorb things like calcium—er, the strong bone compound—and iron from your food. It's very hard to get all the Vitamin D you need from food alone, so being outside in the fresh air is _very_ important to your health. Ever wonder why you feel tired or lethargic during a long stint of rainy days?" Ella wanted to make a joke about London weather, but decided against it. "It's because you become Vitamin D deficient after that period of time. I mean, you can get Vitamin D from drinking orange juice, but not nearly as much as you need."

"Huh…" Ella felt her Mind Palace expanding, deciding to store this particular bit of knowledge away in the 'nature' room, next to the camping supplies. Though Ella much preferred cold, cloudy days, a sunny day in the forest was a wonderful thing for camping. "What's this have to do with trolls?"

"Trolls can't process Vitamin D. They lack the necessary—er— _stuff_ to make it work in their bloodstream, so it calcifies their skin…er, I mean, it turns them to stone. They feel their skin, their eyes, their blood calcifying…like I said, it's traumatizing for them to experience, even if it only lasts a few seconds. Nobody should have to die like that." She shook her head. "No, no…best give the injectable to the poor thing. Rabies causes seizures…we don't want a rabid, seizing troll on our hands."

The clock struck three. "I should get back," said Ella. "Fleur is dropping off Victoire at 5 and I should clean my house beforehand."

Josephine grinned. "She's trusting you with the baby even though there's a murder trial going on?"

Ella narrowed her eyes, annoyed. "Is there something you wanna say to me?" Her face fell from a teasing grin to a gasping gawk. "Because it feels like there's something you wanna say to me." She stood, her feathers ruffling.

"Nothing, Ella, really," said she with a wave of her hand. "Forget I said anything."

"Oh? _Is_ it nothing? Because it sounds like you think I killed Lucius Malfoy." She stood up slowly and leaned on Josephine's desk with both of her hands. "If I did kill him, you'd know. Because I'd have the blood _all_ over my clothes." Her face went a little white. "If I killed Lucius Malfoy, I wouldn't have bothered with a potion. I'd have punched him in the face as hard as I could, and – when he fell – I'd have reached for the nearest blunt object and bashed him in the nose until – his – skull – caved – in." She threw off her labcoat and snatched up her clutch before disapparating in a blink. She was back in Cokeworth, two blocks from her house. She stormed down the sidewalk, looking extremely out of place in her nice clothes and shoes.

Ella was stomping so angrily down the sidewalk that she might have put craters in the cement, had she been any heavier than 150 lbs and able to create a force more than 1000 lbs with a kick...but she was not a professional soccer player that could not kick that well. She was a frail little raven that just happened to be a little more thick than the average 21-year-old, specifically around her ass. She then wondered how much force it would take to create craters as she walked, and then wondered if her current shoes would be able to withstand such force, and by the time she tried to remember how to figure out the algebraic formula, she had reached her front door and calmed down significantly. Ah, science...you weird, wonderful, therapeutic thing...

The key clicked in the lock and she opened the door, finding her entryway full of letters and bouquets of flowers. There were several parcels of chocolates and a few boxes, she recognized, was from Cache's, the finest jeweler in Europe. She kicked them away, mildly annoyed, and swished-and-flicked her wand to organize the parcels neatly in piles upstairs on her bed. She gathered the bouquets in her arms and took them to the kitchen. _Let's see_...red roses, red roses, red roses... There were far _less_ wizards in Europe that were trying to woo her than there would be in America, but she had to admit that the attention was nice. Red roses, red roses, red roses— _what's this_?

One of the bouquets was fashioned of a deep, dark pink punch of roses wrapped with...walnut branches? She took the sprig of leaves, so young and tender...it had undoubtedly come from a walnut tree. And dark pink roses? Ella searched for the card that it had come with, but there was none, not even one that had somehow fallen in the hallway or stuck to her dress. Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on her door. She quickly answered it to see Fleur there, grinning wide, bouncing with glee.

"Fleur?" She came inside, alone, and Ella closed the door as she followed her to the library. "What's going on?"

Her cousin turned around, her face glowing, looking annoyingly gorgeous in the afternoon light. "I'm pregnant," she announced.

Ella's eyes went wide and her mouth dropped in shock. "How—?!" She immediately felt stupid for she _knew_ _how_ that happened. "I mean—! Oh my— I—" They both began to laugh. "Congratulations!" Fleur swept Ella up in her arms in such a tight embrace.

"Ella, I'm pregnant!" she said again, tears of joy filling at her bright blue eyes.

"I just—I'm so happy for you! That's wonderful! What'd Bill say?"

"Oh, I 'avent told 'im yet—I've jjust come from ze 'ospital. You were ze closzest...I jjust 'ad to tell someone! _Alors_ ," she sighed. "So you will _not_ be needing to watch Victoire zees evening... We are staying in and I am telling 'im tonight."

"Well, here," said Ella, dashing to the kitchen. She took one of the rose bouquets—one of the red ones—and removed the card. She came to Fleur and handed the bouquet over. "Take these. Decorate the cottage. In fact..." She waved her wand and summoned the rest of the red roses and plucked the cards away. "Take all of them. Congratulations."

"Zsuitorzs?" Fleur asked with a quirked eyebrow. "'Ow many do you 'ave?" Ella shrugged. " _Alors, merci_ ," she said, kissing Ella on both cheeks. "Enjoy a night off!" Ella was smiling as Fleur gathered the flowers and left as quickly as she came. As she closed the door behind her, she sighed wistfully; she was actually looking forward to a night with Victoire...that sweet little angel had no idea what was going on. Ella had her pick of the litter when it came to who she wanted to be with, but with how her career was going, she wasn't sure if she would have time for marriage and babies. She wanted them desperately, of course, but with all the momentum of what was going on, it just didn't seem feasible. _Meme_ had made it more than clear to never let the Christophe line end; with Victoire, however, it wasn't. Maybe Ella would pass on Chateau Christophe, the Oubliette, the Cambiatus all to her? Maybe she should just move to France and change her name to Ella Christophe and call it good?

Ella laid on her sofa in the library and sighed, kicking her shoes off. If she didn't have a baby by the time she was twenty-five, like all of those in the Christophe line, the ability to access everything would be shut out forever. Her mother had her when she was only nineteen— _nineteen_ —and ensured her success in taking on everything... When she thought of how her parents met, it was likely that her mother got pregnant before she and Daddy were married...and then she wondered if Daddy only married her mother because of it. Either way, she was _still, somehow_ of Christophe blood, no matter the messy details of her parentage, which was—frankly—a miracle.

The details of the 'binding magical contracts' of the Christophes were hidden away, in that secret chamber at _Meme's_ house, all made more inaccessible by the fact that Ella could barely speak French, let alone read it. She just knew that a Christophe must have an heir before their 25th year or the secrets would be lost unto them forever. Frankly, she didn't much like the thought of having an hourglass on her uterus, but what was to be done? _Meme_ had taken Ella under her wing instead of Fleur, and showed her powerful magic beyond any and all stretches of imagination. Ella wanted marriage and babies anyway...it was just the fact that someone was _telling her_ to do it that made it uncomfortable. Oh well.

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, an idea came into her head. She sat up and ran to the telephone in the kitchen. It was an old rotary-style phone that was—she guessed—Snape's parents that she'd decided to keep hanging there. It was painted white, now, instead of the avocado green it had once been. She pulled each number with conviction, just to make sure it would work, and put it to her ear.

"Hello?" came Hermione's voice on the other side of the line.

"Hey, Hermione, it's me," said Ella.

Ella heard her gasp excitedly. "You've learned how to use your phone, finally!"

"Finally, indeed!" laughed she, twirling the cord in her finger. "Watching old black and white movies helped a lot... They're on the phone _all the time_ in this movie "Bye Bye Birdie!" Have you ever seen it? It's this musical movie with this No-Maj called Anne Margaret and it's set in the 50s, I think. Her voice is kind of pitchy and shrill, but I guess that was the style...supposed to be girlish. Anyway, what are doing right now?"

"I'm preparing for my proposal hearing! They're moving forward with the bill—can you believe it? It's this coming Monday, first thing on the docket! I suppose I have you to thank. Dressing me up like a Barbie..."

"I should say," Ella chortled. "I don't want to keep you too long, but I was wondering if you could explain sunlight to me."

There was a dead silent pause. "Er...what do you want to know...?"

"Okay, maybe not _sunlight_ , but—specifically—this thing called Vitamin D?"

"Well, I know a little. It's something you get from sitting in the sunlight. It's good for you. It gives you energy. Why?" Ella could hear the shuffling of papers in the background.

"So... You only get it from sunlight, right?"

"Erm—" She heard Hermione switch the phone from one ear to the other, more papers shuffling in the background. Ella could just see her, sitting on her bed in her tiny flat, scrolls of parchment splayed everywhere. "—I mean, you can get some from your food, but mostly the sun, yes." A beat. " _Why?_ "

"Do you get any vitamins from moonlight?"

"Moonlight—? Er, no, but... Moonlight and sunlight are the same thing."

"Wait, what?" Surely that was a joke.

"It's true. Moonlight is a reflection of sunlight. See, the earth revolves around the sun, and the moon revolves around the earth. The moon itself doesn't _produce_ any light, but rather reflects the sunlight back onto us."

"So the moon is...?" Ella was dreadfully confused. "...A mirror?"

"Well, for lack of a better term, yes. Its bright white surface reflects the light. You know how bright it gets when there's snow _and_ sunlight out? White reflects light better than any other color. Actually, hang on—" Ella heard Hermione put the phone down. She heard quite a bit of shuffling, then a crash, some very choice cuss words, and then the phone receiver being picked up again. "—Alright, sorry about that. So," she cleared her throat, "according to this medical journal, the production of Vitamin D requires UVB radiation, not simply light." Ella blinked in confusion, but Hermione couldn't see that. "The moonlight is _much_ weaker than direct sunlight, which produces said rays, and is therefore simply not enough to excite the process in our bodies that produces Vitamin D."

"Uh..."

"Sorry, did I go too fast?"

"No, not at all! It's just..." She felt a little embarrassed for her ignorance on how the human body worked. "So...the sun doesn't _give_ us Vitamin D, necessarily, but...the... _rays_ of sunlight makes your body produce it on its own? UVB or whatever?"

"That's what it looks like," Hermione said. "Why?"

The click of a switch went off in the back of her mind. "When you cast _Lumos Solarum_ ," she began. "Does it create those same rays?"

A pause. "Enough to make Devil's Snare shrink," she replied with a tiny laugh.

That was a 'yes,' most likely. "And which foods do you get Vitamin D from?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "Aside from milk...?" _Milk...?_ She glanced at her icebox in thought. Ella heard the phone be put down again, and the sound of even more books went shuffling around. There wasn't a crash this time, but there was an audible 'aha!' heard in the background. "Cod liver oil," said Hermione. "It's this nasty stuff, but it's terribly rich in Vitamin D! Most fish are rich in it, in fact!"

Ella frowned. "Is that a potion ingredient?" Hermione laughed.

"No, it's this nasty dietary supplement that muggles take...specifically the older generation. It's foul stuff, but they have pills now if you don't want to swallow the awful stuff."

"Where do you get it?"

"Er..." She paused. "The Pharmacy...it's like a muggle apothecary. What are you doing?"

"Trying to buy cod liver oil, apparently," she said. "How much would it take to replace a day's worth of sunlight?"

She heard Hermione stifling. "Wh—" A pause. "Well, you're supposed to take one per day..."

"That's a start." She hung up the phone, then immediately redialed the same number. The phone rang.

"Did you mean to hang up on me?!"

"Yeah. What's a pharmacy?" Hermione sighed deeply.

"I'll be right there..."

About an hour later, Hermione was sitting at her kitchen table, a plastic bag full of various Vitamin D accoutrements in front of her while Ella sauteed a pair of steaks. It was still spring, so there was plenty of purple asparagus to go around, which was roasting with olive oil in the oven. She was hoping to find fiddleferns at the market, too, but she supposed that there weren't any in the UK. The garlic was in season, though, as were the new potatoes, which were already hot and ready, waiting on the plates for the rest of the food.

"What a brilliant idea," said Hermione, looking over an old medical journal she'd taken from her parent's house. "Vitamin D deficiencies can cause _loads_ of problems in humans...why not animals?" Ella nodded. "All you have to do is figure out how to test it!"

"I've got a friend at Royal Stoke University Hospital. It's one of those kinds of hospitals that teach and do research... I think that she's got those machines that test your blood for stuff. If my hypothesis is right, lycanthropic blood is deficient in Vitamin D." She removed the steaks from the pan and put it on the wooden cutting board to let them rest. She turned the heat immediately off and popped in some shallots and a small glug of the Beaujolais Nouveau from last Thanksgiving, while a red wine vinegar bottle lowered itself to put a splash in the pan. It sizzled and popped and reduced, filling the kitchen with a delicious aroma, sizzling just long enough to put about a tablespoon or so of green peppercorns in. She shook the pan back and forth and added a big knob of butter, using a whisk to stir vigorously, hoping it was just the right temperature to form the emulsion. To her delight, it turned wonderfully thick. "You haven't lived until you've had Mama's _beurre rouge_ on a steak," she bragged as the asparagus danced from the hot oven, twirling onto the plate in a beautiful magical ballet. With her Chef knife, she sliced the steaks on a bias and plated them on a bed of the asparagus and potatoes, a perfect medium-rare. She forgot to ask if Hermione even _liked_ her steak medium-rare, but these steaks were honestly too nice to overcook...and British people didn't know a damn about food, anyway, so what was the difference? She spooned the sauce over in an artful design. "Let's eat."

"Thank you," said Hermione, looking hungrily down at the plate. "I know it sounds silly but I hadn't any idea you cooked." Ella shrugged and poured the wine. "I suppose it only makes sense you do."

Ella sat and raised her glass, which Hermione toasted. "I actually can't cook," she said, folding a napkin in her lap. "It was my _mother_ that could cook, and I was just allowed to help. I wish you could have had my mom's food...it was so—"

"—Unnnmmmmm! Holy cricket!" Ella's eyes went a little wide as Hermione made a borderline orgasmic sound at the first bite of steak. "That sauce tastes of how velvet feels!" Ella couldn't help but laugh. "You could have been a chef!"

"Thankya, thankya," she sang playfully, taking a bite of her asparagus. She sighed contentedly at its familiar taste, remembering when her mother would make it. "Save room, though; I've got an almond souffle in the oven, too."

"A _souffle_?" Hermione looked up, shaking her head in disbelief. "Your family's French; no wonder you know how to cook. It's in your blood."

Ella laughed through her nose as she chewed her steak. "No, we just know what food's good. But my mother did go to Culinary school right after she graduated from Ilvermorny."

"Oh?" She sopped up some of the _beurre rouge_ with some of the crusty bred. "But she's a Pureblood... I thought she was a Magizoologist? Did she want to be a Chef at some point?"

"Not at all. She just wanted to learn how to cook for herself. Culinary school was, like, the _first_ thing she did when she graduated from Ilvermorny." Ella sipped her wine. "The Christophes and Spellings are Old World Purebloods that just don't _do_ that, though; you know, cooking for themselves... You can imagine how horrified my grandmother was when she learned my mom was going to culinary school. She offered to send a House Elf to live with my mom to cook for her, but we don't really, uh, _do_ that in America."

"What do you mean?" she asked, sipping her wine, obviously curious now.

"House Elves have been free since...well, I don't know the exact date, but the point is that up in the Northern USA, House Elves were among the first to get their freedom. It was a big part of the Civil War, actually, along with the No-Maj slaves. Southern Wizards weren't going to give up their House Elves easily, and they therefore took action in the North vs. South back in the 1800s. The point is that, especially in New York City, you don't _keep_ House Elves...it's just not done. You can hire one, sure, but..." Ella shrugged and bit into her potato. Hermione seemed fascinated. "I don't know. One of the most-famous jazz singers from the 20s was a House Elf. You hear all sorts of tales about them in underground speakeasies, slinging Giggle Water in the middle of the No-Maj Prohibition—not that President Picquery would ban alcohol, of course."

"President Picquery?"

"Seraphina Picquery! She was an _amazing_ President," Ella swooned as she sliced another bite of steak. "I went as her for Halloween, once, but nobody knew who I was until I told them." She sighed. "She was known for her dealings with Newt Scamander when _he_ came to NYC back in the 20s, and she even captured Gellert Grindlewald!" Hermione's eyes went wide. "And she's also known for being the only Witch of her generation to have been picked for _all four_ Houses when she attended Ilvermorny."

"You can do that?" gasped Hermione.

"Of course. Do you know how the sorting ceremony is at Ilvermorny?" Hermione shook her head. "Well, you're led into a circular room with four wooden statues. You're meant to stand in the middle of the cloverleaf knot and wait. Depending on which house you're accepted in to, the statue will come to life. The Wampus cat roared for my father, and the Pukwudgie's eyes glowed for my mother. When it was my turn, I hoped desperately for all four statues to come to life...but then that big Thunderbird flapped his wings so greatly that I thought he might fly away. So?" She shrugged. "I'm a Thunderbird; the first in my family. The Zamoras were in Wampus since we came over during Ellis Island."

"But your mother was a Slytherin?"

"Like every Spelling before her."

"And Pukwudgie...?" Ella could see that she wanted to ask if the Pukwudgie was Ilvermorny's Slytherin, if it produced Dark Wizards, too. She simply shook her head.

"To be honest, there's really no... _equivalent_ to Hogwarts Houses. Pukwudgie favors those that are compassionate, with big hearts, that tend to grow up to be Healers, in some form or another." She could see the thoughts behind Hermione's eyes. Maybe Hermione had a mind palace, too? "I grew up hearing about House Wampus. They tended to favor warriors, duelists, champions of right and wrong...it's no wonder that my father was in it. His first instinct is to attack." She giggled a bit. "When I was little, Daddy used to drape my the Wampus skin rug over his body and chase me around Nana's house with it on all fours. He used to do the same thing to my mom, and she would laugh so hard..." Ella sighed through her nose. "I know this sounds weird out loud, but if you met her, I don't think you'd know she was an Old World Pureblooded Witch that had come from the background she had... She was such a pioneer, you know? Of course, it's easy to canonize the dead."

Hermione smiled. "I think it takes a really special person to break the mold like that. Especially when you're from a Pureblooded family like yours."

"She was a pretty special lady," Ella agreed. "She had a really decorated life before she died... Did your mom ever teach you how to cook?"

"Both of my parents work," said Hermione. "I learned how to cook to help around the house when I was little. I can cook dinner, of course, but nothing this fancy."

The American shrugged. "You know, it's strange—I never think of this stuff as fancy." She looked at her half-eaten plate. "It's just...dinner. I mean, food changed a bit at Ilvermorny, but not really. It's like Hogwarts; you say what you want on your plate, and it shows up."

"Do you miss it? Ilvermorny? America?"

"Every day," she said, cutting her potatoes. She took a bite. Hermione was silent. When Ella looked up, she was looking across the table at her, her eyes full of puppy-dog-like compassion. She rolled her eyes. "Take it easy, Sylvia Plath. Not every semi-sad thing has to result in a poetic interpersonal moment." Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "I like it here, okay? I like living in Cokeworth. I like living alone in a small town."

"I would think you'd be more comfortable in London," she commented, eating the last of her asparagus.

"London's fun to visit," she agreed. "But I don't think I'd like to live there, especially when I can apparate anywhere I want." Hermione nodded in understanding. They ate for a moment in silence when Hermione broke it. The subject she brought up would have likely ruined the taste of any other meal, but this was _steak_ with _beurre rouge_ ; it was too good to be ruined by any conversation.

"Um," she began. "I know you don't like talking about this kind of thing—"

"—And yet you're bringing it up—"

"— _But_ Neville seems really hurt from the other night. I think you should talk to him."

"Okay. What would that accomplish?" Ella took her last bite of steak, which was thick with a delightfully crunchy bit of fat on the side. "He's dating Hannah, and I'm obviously not in the best place to be in a relationship right now—"

"—What makes you say that?"

"Well," she began, finishing off her asparagus. "The last person I kissed was my ex-boyfriend, in front of the entire Magical Law Department, including my father, my cousin, Harry, _and_ my current boyfriend—who I'm pretty sure I broke up with by doing that but I haven't seen him since. Oh, and let's not forget that this particular ex-boyfriend is going to be married in less than two months, in spite of the fact that his father was just murdered." The entire sentence was said in a very matter-of-fact way. "And it wasn't a peck on the cheek. There was a _lot_ of tongue." She poured herself some more wine and topped Hermione off. "I do mean a lot..." She immediately thought of and dismissed their even-more-recent interaction just earlier that week. "I'm pretty sure I'm not in a good place to pursue anyone seriously." She shook her head. "Nope. I've apparently got some soul-searching to do."

As if on cue, the front door swung open and Phoebus came flying in, hauling a bulky load of parcels, all tied in red ribbon. The door closed behind him as he brought them into the kitchen. Hermione gasped at the pile as Ella rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"You'd think that being part of a murder trial would stop this," she groaned, standing. Phoebus cawed as Ella grabbed a bag from the icebox which was full of scraps of meat. She popped it in a dish and put it on the counter, where Phoebus hopped on to eat. Ella stepped back over to the table and finished eating.

"Aren't you going to see who they're from?" said Hermione, absentmindedly dipping the rest of the _beurre rouge_ up with her bread. Ella shook her head. "You know, if _I_ was getting that much attention, I'd at least open it or send a 'thank you' note or something."

"Well you're not, are you?" Her face immediately softened. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that how it sounded..." She sighed and summoned the smallest parcel on the top of the pile, which was likely jewelry, in hopes of mollifying her friend. She opened the package to reveal a red velvet box, along with a dragon's blood scented card written in a very masculine hand. Ella's eyes went wide when she read it. "Viktor Krum?" Hermione's face went a flustered shade of pink, and was obviously feeling conflicted. Ella grinned. "Want me to pitch it?" She asked, waving the box. The timer on the oven dinged.

"Of course not!" gasped Hermione as Ella waved her wand towards the oven. The souffle came rising out of the open oven door, now, and set itself neatly on the table, a wobbling spectacle of jiggly cake. The icebox door flung open as a silver sauce boat full of _creme anglaise_ came floating gently out, dancing on air with the silver dessert spoons and plates that found themselves in front of the two witches. A silver serving spoon dipped into the souffle, which stayed delightfully tall, and served Hermione a nice big portion. Ella took an equally large portion for herself, delighting at how visibly uncomfortable and emotionally conflicted Hermione suddenly seemed to be. She didn't like seeing her friends suffer, necessarily, but there was something fun about watching others squirm when it came to matters of the heart. The sauce boat poured its contents delicately on each plate and set itself down. Ella took her spoon and dipped into her dessert, a delightful dance of hot and cold coating her mouth. Hermione mimicked, her unease broken with souffle in her mouth.

"The secret is the Amaretto," said Ella, taking another bite, the gentle clanks of the self-washing dishes being the only thing louder than Hermione's pounding heart. "Seriously, I know that he was your first kiss—"

"—It doesn't matter!" Hermione insisted. "The last thing I am doing is being responsible for your unhappiness!" Ella quirked a brow. "What I'm saying is—" She then dropped her spoon and put her hand over hers "—Be happy, Ella. You deserve it." She nodded towards the red velvet box. "Go on. Open it. He certainly did make a nice effort, sending it all the way to Cokeworth from Bulgaria."

Ella shrugged, deciding to appease Hermione's wishes, and opened the box. Inside was a bejeweled silver necklace, fashioned into a wreath of leaf-shaped rubies, with a pair of pear-cut ruby earrings to match. Ella cringed as she picked them up; they turned out to be chandelier style earrings which cradled the rubies on a delicate silver chain. "You can really tell what a man thinks of you by the kind of earrings he buys you..."

"I think it's a lovely gesture!" gasped Hermione, obviously appalled by Ella's ungratefulness. "Rubies are beautiful jewels—really beautiful!"

"Everybody knows that my favorite color is green," she argued. "I mean, sure, rubies made it into the Bible and are a classic declaration of 'love' and 'passion' across continents..." She sighed. "I guess I've just grown out of wearing rubies..." She set the jewelry down.

"But you wear red lipstick all the time!"

"That's because _green_ lipstick looks stupid." She sighed through her nose. "Fine. I'll write him a 'thank you.'" She took another bite of her souffle. Hermione seemed satisfied enough. "You're sure you don't mind it?"

Hermione looked up, her eyes full of sincerity. "No, not at all. Viktor and I are friends. Just friends. Really." She suddenly got this look on her face like she had been slapped. "Are you _peeking_ into my mind?"

Ella giggled nervously. "Just wanted to make sure you were telling me the truth," she said, spooning another bite of her dessert in her smiling mouth. "Yeah, okay. He's kinda..." She didn't know the word she was looking for, so she just shrugged. "I mean, he's not necessarily my _type_..." The moment she said those words, she realized that she didn't have a real _type_ that she preferred. She'd dated everyone from Draco to Neville to Percy...the only real common factor between those three was that they were all powerful. And who is more powerful than a TriWizard Champion? "Meh. Alright. I'll send him a 'thank you' letter."

* * *

Well, well, well...very interesting developments are happening here. We know it's now April, and Draco's getting married in June. We only have two short months to go between then and now to see what happens. And where does Viktor Krum play in? Will we see soon?

Oh, and just for some clarification: Ella's got an old rotary phone that was leftover from when Snape lived there, because it was his father's, Tobias Snape's, old house...and he was a muggle! (Or No-Maj, since I'm an American.) Ella doesn't necessarily _like_ muggles, but she understands that they've made useful inventions, and she _really_ loves old movies, let's not forget!

We know a lot so far. Will we ever find out whodunnit? Who killed Lucius Malfoy? The culprit might surprise you! Big thanks to HeartofAspen, Pancakestack, SabrinaJasmine, and my guest reviewers! Your continued support means the world to me!


	21. Chapter 21

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Harry 17**

* * *

Harry supposed it was easy enough to believe that Fleur and Ella were related. They _sort_ of looked alike. They both had high cheekbones and big eyes, but Ella was as dark as Fleur was silvery-fair. They were both very pretty, though Ella seemed a bit sad these days. Her grandmother was there, too, who looked even more out of place at the Weasley's than the Delacours. She was an extremely elegant French lady, with narrow eyes and full black eyelashes; Harry couldn't see her hair color underneath her magnificent hat. She was, however, more than friendly towards everyone, which was a bit of a shock to Harry. She didn't make rude comments about the birthday dinner, or balk at being seated next to Hagrid, or recoil at Professor Lupin. In fact, she congratulated him and Tonks on their recent marriage with much enthusiasm. Ella was oddly quiet until a silver weasel patronus came into the Burrow.

"What the—?!"

It was the patronus of Mister Weasley, informing them that the Minister of Magic was on his way. Professor Lupin and Tonks stood up.

"We'd best be off, then," said Tonks, holding Remus's hand.

"Why?" asked Ella, who had apparently grown quite close to Tonks last year. "The party's just starting—"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll see you soon." Tonks wrapped her arms around her in a tight embrace before heading for the door.

"Ella, dear, the Ministry, well—" Mrs. Weasley began. "—They're not so kind to people with Remus's _condition_." Professor Lupin gave a tight smile.

"Off we go. Thank you for everything. Happy birthday, Harry," said Remus, hugging him tight. They disapparated; Ella's face was a bit red with anger.

"That's so rude," Harry heard her mumble as she went off to the kitchen. Her grandmother and Fleur followed.

"What does the Minister of Magic want here?" asked Ron to nobody in particular.

"I doubt it'll be good." Shortly after, Minister Scrimgeor arrived in the burrow. There were, of course, a few pleasantries exchanged, hands shaken, but all were tense. His yellowish eyes then fell on Harry, and he gave a sort of grin.

"Sorry to intrude," spoke he. "Especially as I can see when I am gate-crashing a party. Many happy returns."

"Thanks," said Harry, tense.

"I require a private word with you. Also with Mister Ronald Weasley. And Miss Hermione Granger. Ah—" He looked over Harry's shoulder. "And Miss Ella Zamora, too. I suppose I should have expected you to be here."

"Considering I'm a bridesmaid in my cousin's wedding tomorrow," she deadpanned, her arms crossed.

"Ella, don't be rude." The Minister's chest puffed and his cheeks went a little red at the sight of Ella's grandmother, putting her arm around her. "You mus' show rezspect to ze foreign dignitariesz."

"Helene Christophe," said the Minister, removing his hat in reverence. "My word. You haven't aged a day." Harry frowned at Ella's grandmother. They knew each other? "As formidable as you are lovely."

" _Oui. C'est vrai,_ " said Madame Christophe walking forward and offering her hand. The Minister took her fingers gently and kissed. " _Alors_ , what beez-nuss do you 'ave weez my granddaughter and 'er friendsz?"

Minister Scrimgeor grew visibly uncomfortable. "I'm afraid that's a private matter." They exchanged a look. Madame Christophe shrugged and slowly walked away, Harry catching her winking at Ella before she returned to her cognac with the Delacours. "Mister Potter, if I could see you each in the sitting room, privately—"

"—No," said Harry. "All of us. Together."

"Mister Potter—"

"—I'm not going without my friends."

Ella came up to his side, her head held rather high. "If this is not a criminal charge, Minister, and all parties involved consent to the action, the prosecuting individual is legally obligated to concede to the demands of the aforementioned group."

Minister Scrimgeor looked rather flabbergasted, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione all looked to Ella in shock and question. "Miss Zamora—"

"Minister, please refer to me as "Counselor" as I am Mister Potter's legal representation in this matter. The International Statute of Wizarding Welfare, Supreme Court ruling 5:03, section A, Ammendment C, states that a neutral legal council may be present in any and all judicial, executive, and legislative hearings."

Scrimgeor then crossed his hands over his front, giving a rather condescending look. Hermione seemed a combination of surprised and impressed. "You are not a licensed attorney, Miss Zamora, nor are you a trained Auror, and therefore unqualified—"

"—Massachusetts Supreme Court Ruling 3.03 states that a law student may appear on behalf of a defendant in legal proceedings."

"And you're a law student in Massachusetts?"

"I was educated at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, located in Massachusetts."

"You're a resident of New York."

"I spent a combined 3.75 years residing _in_ Massachusetts, far exceeding the required _one_ year it takes to claim residency in that state, and during said time I spent the required two years of study in E.G. Magical Law, which counts as my credits towards becoming a licensed attorney. Furthermore, the logged hours of personal tutelage at Hardman Red Feather over summer breaks more than qualifies me to represent Mister Potter and his associates in legal matters—which we hadn't been yet disclosed the subject of."

Minister Scrimgeor's patience was wearing thin. He narrowed his yellowish eyes at her in anger. "Miss Zamora—"

"—I-I want her to be my lawyer," Harry interjected. "She's my, er, legal council, Minister."

"So do I," said Hermione. "I…consent to her being my legal representation."

"Er, yeah me too," said Ron, looking a bit confused, but willing enough to go along with it. The minister sighed through his broad nose and then nodded, motioning to the sitting room. The trio began to walk towards the couch, when Ella stopped in front of them.

"A moment, Minister, to confer with my clients." Minister Scrimgeor visibly rolled his eyes and went off to the sitting room. Harry didn't know what to think of the Minister of Magic being able to be bullied around by seventeen-year-old American girl. "Listen," she whispered to the three of them. "I don't know what's going on, but something doesn't smell right."

"America and Britain are different, Ella," whispered Hermione. "The President of the MACUSA might not come calling to someone's house, but—"

"It's better safe than sorry, Hermione. Trust me. Something about this is just weird. We don't know who we can trust right now. Just let me do the talking if he asks you any questions, alright?" She then looked over her shoulder. "Darn, we should have a scribe, too… Well, let's hope this is just a simple hearing and not a deposition." Harry had no idea what she was talking about. "Alright, let's go."

The three of them sat on the paisley loveseat, while Ella brought a small stool to perch herself on at the head of the coffee table. Minister Scrimgeor laid out a leather wrapping on the table in front of himself and unfurled a scroll of parchment. It levitated itself at eye level, facing both the minister and Ella. Harry noted how quickly her eyes seemed to be reading it; she really was quite scary when she got focused.

"Herein is set forth the last will and testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," spoke the Minister.

" _You're_ the executor of Dumbledore's estate?" questioned Ella.

"First, to Ronald Billius Weasley," continued the Minister, dismissing Ella entirely. "I leave my deluminator, a device of my own making, in the hope that it will show him the light when things seem most dark…" The Minister handed Ron a hand-held device that looked like a silver cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the power to suck all light from a place and restore it, with a simple click.

"Dumbledore left this for me?" Ron asked in disbelief. He examined the deluminator, then clicked it open. The lights in the sitting room zipped from the bulbs to Ron's hand, and then zipped back to the bulbs in a glimmer with a second click. Ron laughed. "Weird," he said.

Minister Scrimgeor shifted. "To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in hopes that she will find it entertaining, and instructive." He handed her a well-worn copy of a book, which looked to be a first edition of that tome.

"Mum used to read me those!" Harry and Hermione gave him blank looks. "Oh come on! All the old kids' stories are supposed to be Beedle's, aren't they? _The Fountain of Fair Fortune… The Wizard and the Hopping Pot… Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump…_ "

Hermione frowned. "Excuse me? What was that last one…?"

"Come off it!" laughed Ron. "You must've heard of _Babbity Rabbity_ —"

"Ron, you know full well that Harry and I were brought up by muggles!" snapped Hermione. "We didn't hear stories like that when we were little, we heard _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_ and _Cinderella_ —"

"What's that, an illness?" Harry couldn't help but snicker a bit. Ella remained wholly silent.

"To Mister Harry James Potter," said the Minister. "I leave the snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts…as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill." He unwrapped a cloth to reveal the glimmering golden snitch, and held it out to him. Harry frowned and gently took it from his hand. The minister looked tense, almost as if he expected something to pop out of it. He then sighed and slumped his shoulders. He looked, almost, as if he wanted to say something, but then seemed very aware of Ella's presence, and became very visibly uncomfortable. "To Miss Ella…. _Xanthippe_ …Zamora—" the three of them all took in a breath and held it "—I bequeath…my wand, in hopes that she will put a spare to good use, when the time is right."

"What?" barked Ella, obviously confused.

"Indeed," said the Minister, presenting the wand, wrapped in silver embroidered silk. "A most-unusual gift. Did you mention that you admired it?" Ella and the Minister exchanged a look, and Harry thought, for a moment, he heard something of a pair of voices whispering in the back of his head. She took the wand and pocketed the silk kerchief. Harry would have recognized Dumbledore's wand from anywhere, long and knobbed in a symmetrical fashion, engraved and yet natural all at once. "Is there any reason he might bequeath this wand to you? Did you grow especially close over the last two years?"

Ella looked quite miffed just then, and pocketed the wand. "It is not the place of the executor of the estate to question the motives behind the deceased, is it?" she snapped. "I take it that's all, Minister?"

"Not quite," said the Minister, turning to Harry. "Dumbledore left you a second bequest…the Sword of Godric Gryffindor." He cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, the Sword of Godric Gryffindor is not Dumbledore's to give away. As an important historical artifact, it belongs—"

"—To Harry," said Hermione. "It belongs to Harry." She turned to Ella. "Ella, do something."

"No, he's right," said Ella, her eyes locking with the Minister's. "The deceased may only bequeath that which is their own assets. You cannot own a historical artifact like that, nobody can. It's line of ownership, at this point, is almost impossible to trace. Unless Dumbledore had blood ties to the Gryffindors—"

"—It still belongs to Harry," Hermione insisted. "The sword presented itself to him when he needed it most in the Chamber of Secrets!"

"The sword may present itself to _any_ worthy Gryffindor, Miss Granger; this does not make it _that_ wizard's property."

"So therefore it's sentient?" asked Ella. "It has no owner, really? It's an enchanted magical artifact that is capable of conscious thought?"

"You are correct, Miss Zamora, it _is_ an enchanted magical artifact, and is therefore property of the Ministry of Magic. In any case, the current whereabouts of the sword are unknown."

"Do you mean to say that the sword is missing?" Ella and the Minister exchanged another look, Hermione watching closely. The Minister then looked as if he had been slapped, and Ella stood suddenly. "It's getting late," she stated. "I'm sure you have other business to attend to." The Minister stood, insulted. "Good evening, Minister." Harry wasn't sure what had just happened, but the Minister of Magic snatched up the will and left the Burrow in a fury, slamming the door behind him. The three of them looked at Ella, who was standing strong, her chest heaving slightly in resolve.

"Young lady." The four of them turned to see Ella's grandmother, standing in the door, her arms crossed. "Ze law you cited eez an American one, and a _No-Maj_ law, at zat. It also sztatesz zat a law student may reprezent a defendant in _criminal_ proceedingz, not jjust legal 'earings. And zat a licenszed attorney muszt be preszent to szupervize."

Ella shrugged nonchalantly. " _He_ didn't know that," she replied, causing Hermione to gasp.

"You took _that_ big of a gamble!"

"Well it kept you from being interrogated, didn't it? Which is _exactly_ what he meant to do." She looked at the door. "I _really_ don't like this. Not at all…"

"One of zeez dayz," began Madame Christophe. "You are going to get yourszelf into trouble zat I cannot get you out of. And zen what will you do? Ah?"

"You only get in trouble if you get caught," argued Ella, shifting uncomfortably. Her grandmother gave her an extremely irritated look, quite similar to the kind Harry would get from Uncle Vernon when 'he wasn't going to tolerate his nonsense anymore.' "Alright, geez!" whispered Ella, throwing her hands up in defense. Madame Christophe frowned and motioned her come forward. Ella came and presented Dumbledore's wand to her grandmother. Harry almost jumped up, shouting at them for touching it, but he kept himself restrained on the couch. Hermione's hand came over his.

"Why in ze world...?" Madame Christophe took the wand and examined it for a moment, then held it up to her ear. "Odd," she commented. "Very odd."

"Seriously," Ella replied. "I wasn't even close to him. Not at all. And what do I need another wand for? It's not like I have a _habit_ of breaking my wands...it was just that one time."

" _Cher_ , _écoute,_ " said her grandmother, who then held the wand up to her ear. Ella took the wand and listened, as if she were holding a seashell. Harry couldn't see Ella's face, but Madame Christophe's expression, though neutral, was suggesting that she knew something that she didn't. "Do you 'ear?" Ella tensed and stuffed the wand in her pocket.

"Can I put this in my trunk, now?" she asked, her voice a little rushed. There was a pause, and Madame Christophe nodded with a tight smile. Ella ran upstairs to where she was staying, and her grandmother rolled her eyes with a sort of grin. She looked to the three of them with a grin.

"Shall we?" she asked, motioning back to the dining room. Hermione stood first, looked at the book in her hand, then, Harry supposed, decided that it was better to look at it later and went into the dining room, Ron on her heels. Harry paused and stared at her. " _Oui_?"

"Madame Christophe," Harry began, "You looked as if you knew the Minister..."

"I am Helene Christophe, 'arry." She grinned. Harry paused. "In my line of work, you get to know many. I could shock you weez all zat I know." He wondered if she might have known Dumbledore. "You are wondering about Professor Dumbly-dore?" she asked with a smile. " _Alors_ , 'e loved you, but I zsink you know zat. And ze zsnitch? _Alors_ , what do you _know_ about zees zsnitch? What do you know about zsnitchez in general?" Harry paused in thought. He knew that snitches had flesh memories, that nobody touches it without gloves on, except for the Seeker that catches it. He knew they were bewitched, made by magical metal workers... "Per'aps now eez not ze time to zthink about eet, 'arry. Eet eez your birzsthday. Tomorrow we shall zspeak more, _ou_ _i_?" She then smiled sweetly and put her arm around his shoulders and led him to the table, just in time for Ella to come back down. They all took their seats and ate.

Fred and George had bewitched purple lanterns to float around, glowing with a golden "17" on each one. Mrs. Weasley had baked a cake in the shape of a golden snitch, as big as a beach ball, which sat handsomely in the middle of the table. Harry was sitting across from Hagrid, who had given him a very handsome moleskin pouch as a gift.

"Seventeen, eh? Six years ter the day that I met ye for the first time, d'yeh remember?"

Harry smiled. "Vaguely. Didn't you smash down the door, give Dudley a pig's tail, and tell me that I was a wizard?" He earned a few laughs, and then caught a look from Ella, and was reminded in that moment of their conversation last year about him and Hagrid. "You also baked me a birthday cake," he said. "It was the first one I ever got." The table fell silent. Harry smiled at Hagrid, who was tearing up with a smile. "It was the best birthday I've ever had," he added. Ella was right; Hagrid really was Harry's dad, and he wasn't about to let another one of them die without telling them at least some semblance of how important they were in his life.

"I think that's a really nice thing to say, Harry," said Ella, quite clearly and loud enough so that _everyone_ could hear. She smiled at him, and Harry smiled back; she really wasn't so bad.

"'agrid," said Madame Christophe. "Madame Maxine of Beauxbatons eez coming tomorrow, and she 'as been asking about you. Be sure to save a dance for 'er, _ou_ i?" Hagrid's cheeks went a little red, and Harry couldn't help but laugh a little. There was some more talk about Beauxbatons, some more talk of Harry and his birthdays in the past. There was, mostly, happiness and love, and Harry realized that it was moments like these that were precious, that would become memories to treasure and keep him warm on cold nights when he was out there hunting horcruxes. "Ella, Madame Maxine expresszed interest in you az well, _cher_."

"I'll say hello," said Ella, a bit short, avoiding eye contact with her grandmother. It seemed there was a tension between them. Madame Christophe gave a tight smile. Fleur looked as if she was about to say something, but Gabrielle stopped her, miraculously.

"Zeet up zstraight," she said, when it was quite clear that was _not_ what she was really saying. Ella straightened her back to stop slouching and ate quietly for the rest of the meal, all through the cake. That night, as Harry was going up to bed, he ran in to Ella in the hallway, on her way to Ginny's room, where she was staying. She smiled at Harry in a friendly way when they made eye contact.

"Ella," he began, realizing halfway through saying her name he was unsure of how to continue.

"You want to know why Dumbledore left me his wand?" she asked. Harry's silence was enough of an answer. "Well, during my fifth year, I broke _my_ wand. It was made of Sycamore wood and had a Thunderbird tail feather core. I was a little hysterical about it, but..." She tensed. "Well, Professor Snape had to go to Diagon Alley that weekend anyway for Hogwarts business, and he had Draco take me to Ollivander's while he was there. This was before Dumbledore got kicked out of Hogwarts for _your_ whole "Dumbledore's Army" mess," she quipped. "So he knew about it. That's all I know about the correlation. I don't have a habit of breaking my wands."

" _Malfoy_ took you to get a new one?"

"Yes, _Draco_ volunteered to go with me to Diagon Alley to get me a new wand, because he is a complex being capable of good deeds and kindness. And you know what? When I tried to pay with dragots, he pulled out his galleons to cover me, and said not to worry about paying him back. So why don't you put _that_ in your pipe and smoke it."

 _You're pretty protective of somebody who calls you a Mudblood,_ thought Harry.

"Do you want your ass kicked?!" she whispered angrily through gritted teeth.

"Sorry!" whispered Harry, backing himself to the wall when she advanced. "I—" He frowned. "Did you just read my mind?" he gasped. "Can you read minds?!"

Ella stopped and seemed to calm. "I..." She sighed through her nose. "It's not like that. I'm not a legilimens. I just..." She then got an angry look on her face again. "You know you really should get better at controlling your emotions and disciplining your mind. Also keeping a neutral facial expression..."

Harry paused. "So...you didn't read my mind, you just...?"

"It's not legilimency, Harry, it's psychology. I can read your face, your body language..."

"Well—stop it, then!" he whispered, his face and neck rather hot with an embarrassed sort of rage.

"I _can't_ stop! I just...I can't help it, okay? I can't help noticing things." They looked away from each other; this wasn't getting them anywhere.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess I just thought you were over him." Ella tensed, her face went a queer shade of purple-ish red. "Not that it's any of my business!" he quickly added. "I—" He sighed. "I guess I'm not doing very well at this, am I?" That seemed to quell her anger, at least enough to give a smile.

"I'd say I'm having fun watching you try, but..." Harry smiled.

"I'm sorry, Ella, I just..." He paused, struggling to find the right words to get her on his side. "I need to know why Dumbledore left you his wand."

She shook her head and shrugged. "I'd tell you if I could," she sighed. "Really. I know what you're up against, and I want to help you all I can, but..." Ella shook her head again, her curls bouncing over her shoulders. "I just don't know. I _do_ know that everything happens for a reason, and that the greatest struggle in life is to find out what that reason is... The truth of the matter is that we may never know. Sometimes...we just have to have faith." She swallowed then, almost as if her own words tasted of bile.

"Earlier this evening, when your grandmother was holding the wand to your ear...it was as if you were...listening?" She nodded. "What did you hear?"

The young Slytherin laughed through her nose. "Would you believe me if I told you that it was a voice?"

"Actually, at this point, I think I'll believe anything."

That earned Harry a small laugh. "Well...it was a voice. It wasn't _saying_ anything, really, but..." She shook her head. "Have you ever studied wand lore?" Harry shook his head in reply. "Well, I have. Did you know that we get our wands at Ilvermorny? Do you know how it happens?" Harry shook his head again. "After we're sorted, we're led into a separate room where we're told to close our eyes and listen very hard. There are representatives from the great American wandmakers there, and they all help us to sort of...hear our inner voices, our souls. It's like we say a silent prayer and are..." She then shook her head. "I can't tell you the details, but the point is that we don't _choose_ our wands, our wands choose us." Ella pulled out her own wand, arrow straight, beautiful and black with knobs where thorns once were. "The day I got my wand, it was a nightmare. I went to Ollivanders and he took over an _hour_ trying to fit me for a wand. It took so long..." She sighed, almost as if the memory itself was paining her. "It wasn't until I started crying he was able to fit me with this. I was shocked. All I wanted was for him to repair _my_ wand, my sycamore wand. But the fact of the matter is that I outgrew it. A wand chooses them that sings a song only they could hear." Harry blinked. "Ugh. I'm not explaining this very well, am I?"

"Sorry," he said. Maybe Hermione could understand it better?

"Do you remember getting your wand?" Harry did. "Remember that kind of...surge? That kind of feeling like a wave has grown within you? Like something was awakening? You know how in the movies, when the music sort of swells, and gives you a rising feeling of hope or determination or something?"

"You watch movies?" he piped.

Ella gave a nervous scoff. "It's a guilty pleasure. I like to go to the movie theaters, but none of my friends ever want to go with me, so I always end up going alone. Don't tell my grandma, okay? She doesn't like it when I go into No-Maj places by myself."

"I won't tell her," promised Harry, which caused Ella to smile in relief. "I do remember getting my wand. It was like...waking up." Ella smiled wide.

"Yeah, like electricity? Like a powerful wind blowing within you? Like a surge in a storm?" Harry nodded. "Well, according to wand lore, a wand _feels_ the same things you feel when it's picked up by the right wizard or witch. Every tree has a magical property or two, and you can really tell a lot about a person by the kind of wand they get. My father, for example, has a wand made out of aspen wood, and a wampus cat hair for a core. This makes _perfect_ sense, as aspen wood favors duelists and revolutionaries. Who better than my father to receive such a wand? Have you ever heard of the Silver Spears? They're a legendary dueling club, rumored to only admit those wizards and witches which wield aspen wood wands."

Harry hadn't ever thought about the _kind_ of wand a person might own, but he nodded anyway to allow Ella to continue. He was reminded of Zabini saying that Ella would tell you her whole life story if you'd let her talk, back last year on the train when he had snuck into the Slytherin's compartment with his invisibility cloak. The rest of that scene he'd tried to block out...

"My mother got her wand from Ollivander's, you know. He said it was one of most-unusual wands he'd ever made: ash wood, 14 inches precisely, _leprechaun_ beard hair core." Harry frowned in question. "I know! He said he just made it in his younger days as an experiment. As the decades passed, he wondered if there would be any person alive that would be able to use it. He said that it was lying in a crate under his workbench, near-forgotten, when my mother came in. Ash wood is stubborn, you know. The one that wields an ash wand will have found a mate for life; the wand will lose power and skill if passed on to another. If you met my mother, you'd know she's unbearably stubborn, but with a sense of humor, which, I guess, explains the leprechaun hair... It was buried with my mother."

"Ella," began Harry. "You talk of wands as if they have feelings, that they can hear."

"They do. They can." She held out her wand. "Try casting something with my wand. Go ahead, try it." Harry tensed as she waved her wand at him, remembering the shattered glass and wand boxes flying off the shelves when he tried out his first wands at age eleven. "See? They're sentient, in a way. They're vessels, with which to channel magic. _My_ wand doesn't want to do magic for you, and I doubt that your wand will want to do magic for me. But I'll bet you anything that Hermione's wand might do magic for you, or Ron's." A beat. "That's because you're such close friends."

"Did you ever let someone else try with your wand?"

"Oh, God, no, never," she gasped, shaking her head violently. "No, no. Slytherins don't... _do_ that. It's just...we don't."

"Then how do you know that...?"

"Because I've seen it done before. You know, I used to steal my dad's wand when he slept to try and practice magic. His wand knew who I was, and would let me do small spells, _safe_ spells, like making things fly or creating light. My mother's wand, however, would set something on fire if I ever even _thought_ of going near it." Ella then gave a tiny scoff. "I learned pretty quickly to not touch it."

Harry wondered just then what it might have been like to have borrowed his parent's wands. He wondered if he might do the same, sneaking a wave of his dad's wand while he napped, or trying to play with his mother's wand while she read a book. He felt a sort of shame for even thinking of taking his parent's wands, which was followed by a near-immediate curiosity of what had happened to them. "So..." He became almost desperate to continue speaking, if only to keep himself from wandering down the dark path of depression. "You and...Draco never...?"

Ella went a little red again. "That would have been a little...intimate for us." _But weren't you two..._? Harry quickly cleared his mind. "So...you're really not coming back to Hogwarts?" she asked. Harry shook his head. "That's okay. I understand. And I expect Ron and Hermione are going with you?" Harry nodded after a pause. "It's a shame. I doubt that Hogwarts will be safer than the open road for you, anyway, since Professor Snape has taken over as Headmaster." Harry's blood began to boil, his fists clenching. "I wish I could help you more," she said. "I frankly would love to just _give_ you his wand. That senile old queen..." Harry's face must have gone bright red, for how she smiled. "Look, it's not like I agreed with or even _liked_ that maniac of a Headmaster. But he seemed to have a ton of dumb luck on his side, or at least had some semblance of future-sight. He wanted me to have his wand and that's all I know about it." A beat. "Look, I still have to put some finishing touches on Fleur's gown. It's getting late, okay?"

There was a rather long pause. Harry felt like screaming. "You made the gown?" he asked instead, quietly.

"We all did; Aunt Apolline, Gabrielle, and myself. She was going to be wearing my shoes, but my feet are too big..." She shifted. "So I did the embroidery on her gown instead. I like to sew needlepoint. It's a nice hobby."

"How do you possibly have time for hobbies?" asked Harry in disbelief. "You run student council, you're a Slytherin Prefect, you organize every single contest known to man and captain the dueling club—"

"Now, now, Harry, it's unfair to say that I do those things by myself. I simply preside over those organizations and delegate tasks. None of the contests, the fundraisers for the dueling club, or anything else like that would be up and running were it simply me. I've got lots of responsible and creative friends that do it all with me. It'd be impossible for me to do everything by myself, wouldn't it?" She then smiled. "Needlepoint is just one of my hobbies that I like to do when I'm having trouble falling asleep. It calms me down."

"I would have thought you'd like to read."

"Oh, no," she laughed. "No, no, reading gives me _too many_ ideas. I'd _never_ get to sleep were I to read before bed. Needlepoint lets me slowly turn my brain off, nice and gently." Ella leaned against the doorframe and nodded pointedly inside. "It's not much. I have to finish putting it on the dress, a few more touches here and there...in a perfect world, a woman only marries once. So you really do have to make it count." Harry noticed her absentmindedly playing with the great diamond ring on her left hand. She must have noticed him looking for she glanced down at it and gave a sad smile. "It won't come off," she said. "I've tried everything. Every salve, every oil, every spell. It just won't come off." She gulped and looked up at him with, he guessed, as charming and as light-hearted of a smile as she could muster. "Why won't it come off, Harry?" Ella whispered, her eyes beginning to well. A single tear spilled over her cheek.

"I..." He didn't know what to say. What do you say to someone like her, living in her situation? In spite of their rocky start, Ella had still shown kindness to him in ways he wasn't sure was possible. He could make an effort; she _did_ steal from the MACUSA for his sake. "It's a nice ring," He then offered. "It'll come off someday. Until then it's...nice to look at."

Ella laughed and smiled, then wiped her eyes quickly. "Yes, that's true. I suppose if I'm going to have a bewitched diamond ring stuck on me until further notice, it may as well be a pretty one." She then shook her shoulders, as if her feathers were ruffling and unruffling all at once. "Oh, listen to me jabbering on while I've got a wedding dress to finish. Well, goodnight, Harry. Sweet dreams." She then closed the door quickly. Ginny appeared behind Harry.

"Is she alright?"

"Er, yeah."

Ginny put her hand on Harry's shoulder. He turned his head and locked his eyes with hers, bright, green and exciting. She grinned. "She's worked really hard on that wedding dress," said she. "I can't believe one person did that."

"Well," he said. "I can't wait to see it." He took in a breath as he felt her close in, a light scent of flowers brushing gently against his face. "Good night, Ginny," he whispered.

"Good night, Harry," she whispered back, her breath tickling his lips. She must have heard Ron coming, for she quickly pecked him on the cheek and retreated to her bedroom. Harry stared at the closed door, unsure of how exactly to feel. He sighed through his nose and went up to Ron's room, where Hermione was sitting, nose-deep in The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Harry flopped down on the bed, face first, and let out a long, low breath into the pillow. Ron appeared soon in the doorframe, his hands full with a big plate of the rum truffles that Ella and Gabrielle had made earlier that evening.

"So," announced Ron, coming and sitting on the bed. "Ella's got Dumbledore's wand, eh?" Hermione looked up. "And I got the deluminator. Hermione, you got a book. Harry, you got the snitch." The wheels in Ron's mind began to turn, Harry could see, when he glanced over. He took a truffle and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. "He's got to have a reason, eh?"

"Of course he's got a reason, Ron!" said Hermione. "We just have to figure out what that reason is..."

* * *

Short-ish chapter, short and sweet. It's got quite a bit of info here. I didn't want to rewrite scenes we already know, i.e. the wedding and the Trio's talk the night before. We know what they talk about, we know how the wedding goes...I'm trying to give info that we don't know yet. And why the hell does Ella have the Elder wand? Remember, we don't yet _know_ that it's the Elder wand, but we all know that she's in a TON of danger now. It's going to get scary, I'll warn you now. It's going to get tearful and dramatic. Stay tuned!

Big thanks to HeartofAspen, Pancakestack, SabrinaJasmine, and my guest reviewers for your love and support! You are the reason I keep pushing forward. 3


	22. Chapter 22

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Draco 20**

* * *

September 1st. Fan-bloody-tastic. He had tried to make it a day like any other, listening in on proposal after proposal, deciding what to invest in, what to shun… The proposals for new laws, for grants had been interesting enough, he supposed. Granger even stood up, continuously pushing her damn House Elf Welfare bill, and he had to listen to her drone on and on with her nervous stammering and cracking voice. Every single word she spoke made the whiskey in his office sound more and more tempting. The clock struck three.

"Mr. Malfoy, there's someone here to see you," announced Mrs. Hudson nervously.

"Tell them I'm busy," said Draco, loosening his tie as he walked towards his office.

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but they just barged in—"

Draco shot her a rather unfriendly look. "—Mrs. Hudson, what is the _point_ of having you as my secretary if you're just going to let people barge in?"

"Forgive me, sir—there was nothing I could do, sir!"

Draco swung the door to his office open, a sneer on his face; it quickly fell away to see a raven-haired hourglass wearing a green dress standing there, gazing out his window. Her red lips smiled when her brown eyes met his gaze. He felt himself tense. She looked like the sound of silence, everything wonderful and powerful and familiar, all at once. He'd dreamed of the day she might show up in his path again, coming of her own accord instead of him catching her or him begging. Their timing, however, seemed to be eternally cursed to be wrong since the Battle of Hogwarts.

"That's alright, Mrs. Hudson," he then said. "Nobody says 'no' to Ella Zamora." He shut the door. She was wearing a boat-necked cotton dress that was green and black; the black part appeared to be a lace print, as he came closer. Her green slippers sparkled when she took a step into the light of the window.

"I've come to apologize," she said. He gulped, his chest tightening. "I treated you like a bad person when I know that you're not."

"You don't have to apologize," he said, neutral, almost too quickly.

She nodded. "Yes, I do. So…" She shrugged. "I'm sorry." There was so much sincerity in her voice; Draco's knees buckled. "I was stupid and ill-tempered when you were just trying to be nice to me. Please forgive me." Ella smiled again. He wasn't sure of what to say next, if there _was_ anything to say next. He was suddenly very aware of the ring, still in his desk drawer. He then feared that Ella's grandmother would come swooping in. They were standing there for a very long time before she looked down and took in a staggered breath. Ella smiled and waved her hand dismissively, the light from the windows highlighting a line of welling tears in her eyes.

"I'm a stupid woman, I shouldn't have come—" She moved to walk out; Draco dropped his briefcase on the floor and caught her with both hands by the shoulders, moving quickly to stand in front of her. She was clearly shocked for a moment, but then smiled politely.

There was so much there, it almost seemed to choke. There they were, standing in the heart of his father's old office, where Draco had taken up his governance role at the Ministry of Magic. Father had been banished to his home, forbidden to work in the Ministry under the good rule of Minister Shacklebolt, and now Draco headed up his stead. The Malfoy name _had_ to mean something again, and the weight of it was all on Draco's shoulders. Things were going well; his position, their investments all around the country paying off again, and his engagement to Astoria Greengrass…and, now, Ella Zamora, in his office.

"Don't." He looked up at her; she was grinning. "I know that look. Don't even think of trying to kiss me." A beat. "You're a married man, now."

"I'm not married," said Draco with a gulp.

Ella grinned. "No, but you will be soon."

"Not until next year," he said. "I think."

Her nose crinkled up when she smiled. "That doesn't change the fact that Ella Zamora is not 'the other woman.'"

"I'll leave her," he said, his own words coming before his brain could tell him whether to speak or not. Her face didn't show any approval or disapproval; she simply seemed to be waiting. "I'll leave her today."

She quickly shook her head, and closed her eyes. "Don't leave her for my sake," she said, her words like water tripping over stones.

"You don't believe I would?" he asked.

"It's more like I don't believe that you _should,_ " she replied, still avoiding his gaze.

"I meant what I said the other day," he said, his voice cracking. "I wish it were you." Ella's chest visibly heaved, and her eyes brimmed with tears. "Ella..." She tensed, still avoiding his eyes. "I mean it. Say the word and it's over. The Daily Prophet's office isn't far. I'll go there now and announce it to the world that it's you that I want to be with."

"And then what?" she snapped, now facing him with a frown. "We'll gallivant off, happily ever after? Like it's that simple? Like it's right?"

"It could be," he answered.

"Not for me," she retorted. "I've already got enough targets on my back from ex-Death Eaters."

"I could protect you," he argued. "Nobody would ever touch you if you were mine. Ella, _listen_ to me—you'd be a Malfoy. No Death Eater would come near you, ex- or not."

"What are you honestly suggesting?" she whispered, incredulous. "You can't leave Astoria like this. I could survive you leaving, but she couldn't." The way she said that was…odd. She must have realized it, for she sighed through her nose and shook her head. Ella put her hands atop his. "Please, Draco. You know you can't." He gripped her shoulders, almost afraid he might sink into the carpet and drown if he were to let go. "Your father wouldn't allow it. You'd be disowned. You would have _nothing_."

A pang hit his heart; she was still as sensible as ever. He nodded quickly and let go of her shoulders. He bent his head and ran a hand through his hair, taking in and letting out a long breath. He looked to her, again; she smiled, again.

"How are you?" she asked, as if the last two minutes hadn't happened. Draco said nothing. "I see." She turned and meandered around his office absentmindedly. "I guess I should confess that I'm not solely here to apologize."

Draco put his hands in his pockets and frowned in question. Ella pirouetted to face him.

"I want you to push Hermione Granger's House Elf proposal forward."

"What?" Draco balked. "You can't be serious."

She smiled. "I couldn't be more sincere."

He put his hands in his pockets and shifted. "I suppose you're going to use the fact that I threw you to Death Eaters as leverage?"

Ella scoffed. "Well, there _is_ that…" She paced around the office, and circled to his father's leather chair. She sat, slipped off her sparkling shoes and put her stocking feet on his desk. "But I purposefully screwed with your medicine for the sake of my own stupid, stubborn curiosity, and therefore exposed your secret to others as well as endangering the lives of everyone involved, including yours…not to mention breaking the Potioneer's sacred vow in doing so." She looked a little thoughtful, a little sad. She quickly brushed it off with a smile. "As far as I'm concerned, we're even." He inwardly balked; had Brazil taught her some brand of forgiveness?

"Then why do you presume that you may simply barge in here, unannounced, and ask this of me?" he sneered, crossing his arms.

She put her feet down and sat up straight. "It's like I said earlier: I know you're not a bad person."

Draco was taken aback. "And you mean to tell me that _you_ truly care for this House Elf Welfare law?"

"House Elves have had their liberation in America for quite some time now," she commented. "They may hold jobs, own and run businesses of their own, et cetera."

"Ah, yes, America—the paramount of democracy, land of opportunity—"

"—I can't speak for No-Maj America, but Magical America is still able to maintain its democratic ideals." She sighed a bit through her nose. "My point is that the fact that Great Britain is so far behind us in this simple humanitarian law—"

"—They aren't _human_ —"

She stood quickly, as if she had been slapped. "—No, but we _are_." She didn't falter, or break eye contact. She never did before, he supposed, and she likely never would. Draco was reminded of with whom he was dealing. "I'll be the first to admit that I deeply dislike _looking_ at House Elves, if only for aesthetic purposes…but that doesn't mean they deserve to be crammed to the shadows." A beat. "You and I have been born to privilege. With that privilege comes the responsibility of making sure that nobody else gets brushed aside unfairly."

"Life isn't fair," he simply stated. "Fairness? Justice? It's all some rotten lie."

"That doesn't mean we can't make it a little less unfair along the way," Ella argued. "Of course, it's a lie, and one that we tell ourselves, and everyone else, that life _can_ be fair. There's an author I love, they say: If one were to take the Universe and grind it in a mortar and pestle and sift it through every sieve we could find, one wouldn't find a shred of fairness, or a hair of justice. But you believe in those lies, that they're there—because otherwise who would move forward? Who would ever want to learn? Or change? Or discover? Who would ever want to reach out? For the sake of adventure? Or would it be for the sake that their favorite lie, that the world is _wonderful_ and full of _goodness_ and that we can be the ones to bring that glorious discovery to light?"

Draco's anger flared beneath his exterior. "You speak of goodness and wonder and morality and light as if you know these things, which I suspect that you might have in your blessed little life. You speak of fairness and justice as if you have ever received any—"

"—My life is not up for debate—"

"—Is it not, madam—?"

"—My name is _Ella_ —!"

"—I don't give a frog's fat arse what your name is—your name is Mud for all I care—and I'll tell you one more thing—" He took a rather menacing step towards her, the kind that might make any other shake "—you have no idea what it is like to be in my position. NONE. All of your high ideals of morality and empathy and whatever other rubbish you like to preach about means absolutely _nothing_ to me. Would you like to know why? I'll tell you: No matter how much of that _goodness_ or _wonder_ you'd like to see in the world, there is certainly _none_ of that in me, at least not for your sake. There is no 'heart of gold' beating in my chest, and I am not going to be the one to pass that ridiculous proposal to law, _certainly_ not for the likes – of – you."

There was an extremely tense silence; her jaw was tight. She then smiled, her shoulders relaxed. "I never thought you had a heart of gold," she stated sweetly. "Not once. Not when we first met. Not when you bought me ice cream, or my wand, or when you asked me for help, or when your patronus found mine." He tensed, everything in his mind going quiet and loud all at once. "I always pictured your heart as coal; mountains of it, in fact." His anger flared; a sharp pang in his chest caused his breath to falter. "I guess I just hoped that all of that pressure would create a diamond." She slipped her shoes back on and strode towards the door.

"What?" asked Draco before she could reach it, now utterly confused.

Ella pirouetted to face him, a neutral expression on her face. "That's how diamonds are made," she said again. "Did you know that? Diamonds are made out of coal."

"That's impossible," he argued.

"Said the wizard," Ella replied. "It's what they say, though. Well, they're made from _carbon_ …which is, from what I understand, coal." She shrugged. "The point is, if you take enough of it, and put it under enough heat and pressure—and I'm talking _extreme_ pressure—it's transformed, into diamonds." She sighed through her nose, glancing down. "Maybe it was a silly hope. I suppose that I just thought that you might want to be on the right side of history for once."

Before he knew it, his hand was on the door, holding it shut as her hand was on the handle. His breath stifled, catching a whiff of her hair, which smelled a bit like a glassy lake on a foggy day, with hints of freshly peeled apples; his mouth watered. Ella turned around, doe-eyed and unsure. She didn't look angry.

"Draco…" His own name was like a knife in his heart when spoken by her. "What are you doing?" she whispered. He felt her breath on his lips, and a fire he once thought was dead came back to life, all at once. It was as if a pile of embers caught fire on a wind. His own thoughts seemed somewhat foreign, unfamiliar, almost like they were from a part of him he had long forgotten. It was the part of him that was happy.

"Kiss me," he whispered, partly unaware that he was actually saying it out loud.

"I can't," she whispered back, her voice cracking. "I want to—" Draco's heart skipped. "—but I can't."

"Say the word, Ella," he begged. "Say for me to leave Astoria."

She chewed her bottom lip, her eyebrows tilted up. "Please, Draco," she said. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"We can be together," he said, leaning his forehead against hers. "We can do it right this time."

She shook her head. "I don't think I can..."

"Tell me why, then."

He heard her gulp. He felt her stifled breath against his lips. He could hear the bricks in her mind, building itself up around her heart and soul, never allowing anybody in. He understood that she had been hurt by him too much. Perhaps it truly was unfair of him to ask her to trust his words? She put her hands on his shoulders, then slid them down to his chest. A memory flashed in his mind's eye of when they were sixteen; her hands would come up to his chest and she would re-pin his Prefect pin or smooth the collar on his shirt. If her hand came up to his tie, she would always be pulling him towards her for a kiss.

"I broke your heart," she finally said. He pulled away, shocked. Her eyes were closed, her brow knit in sadness. He saw her swallow away a tear. He wanted so much to pull her into his arms and hold her so tight that any insecurities of how he felt for her would crack away and fall to the floor. Ella looked at him, her eyebrows tilted up in question. "Haven't you had enough?" she half-laughed through her pained expression.

Draco gulped. The air was too stiff; he had to get out of there. But what would happen if Ella Zamora was just _left_ in his office? What would happen if Mrs. Hudson saw them leaving together? He wasn't about to ask her to just walk out with him. She seemed willing enough to listen...he just wanted to talk with her. He wanted an opportunity to... "Do you want to come somewhere with me?" He could never read her like she could read him, but after a long time, she silently nodded. He smiled, his chest tight. He held out his hand.

"I thought you couldn't apparate inside the Ministry?"

"We're not apparating," he said. He nodded pointedly to the fireplace and mantle in his father's office. "Trust me?"

She tensed, but slowly put her hand in his. He held on tight; they were soft as ever. Draco locked eyes with her and slowly walked backwards; she followed, her eyes not breaking away from his. He looked to the fireplace, and then looked back at Ella, who then visibly understood. She took in a big breath as he came to stand next to her, his fingers lacing tight with hers. They squeezed each other's hands, and took in a deep breath, and jumped, their bodies engulfed into green flames...

They arrived in an old church's fireplace, in a garden of statues that were covered in linens. Ella frowned, but didn't let go of his hand. She looked to him in question, and he silently said with his eyes 'trust me.' He led her through the statues, through the dusty hall, columns of light coming through half-painted-over windows. They arrived at a heavy door, and he pushed it open with his free hand. The smell of damp chestnut trees came and hit them both; he looked to his right to see her beautiful face, bathed in sunlight, her hair combed back with the beautiful autumn breeze. A smile grew on her lips, and her teeth were glowing bright as the sun.

"Paris," she whispered. "You brought me to Paris." She looked at him, seeming conflicted. "Why did you bring me here? Truth."

 _Truth_. "I've been wanting to bring you here for years," Draco confessed. "This may be my only chance."

"I..." Ella then gulped with a smile. Her eyes told a story of restrained joy. "Well... So long as we're just friends while we're here. Okay?" He nodded with a smile, his insides aching and chest growing tight. "Okay. Where to?"

"Anywhere you like," he answered. "The _Champs-Élysées,_ perhaps?"

"You're really willing to go to No-Maj Paris?" He shrugged. "Well, perhaps you're right to think so..." The unspoken reality of them sneaking about was laid thick in her voice. Ever the adventurer, she shrugged. "Oh well." Ella leaned her head back and took in a long breath of the Parisian air, and sighed through her open mouth. "Let's go to _Montmartre_ ," she suggested. "Know how to get there from here? There's a bookshop there that I love."

"Don't let go of my hand," he replied, and they disapparated.

Montmartre was beautiful on this oddly clear day. The afternoon sun made it look so appealing he forgot he wasn't in a magical part of Paris. Truth be told, it was too risky to be in a magical part of anywhere, for the two of them would be recognized. In Muggle Paris, they were just an Englishman and an American, being tourists, completely anonymous. The way Ella was browsing through the cookbooks was simply fascinating; poised and yet enthusiastic, he couldn't help but smile. His eyes went back to the books. He was admittedly curious, as he'd never been in a muggle bookstore before.

His fingers browsed the tomes, some young and some old. Draco loved the smell of old books; it reminded him of home. When he was a child, he would lose himself in the endless bookshelves in the Malfoy library, pulling down piles of them and building up forts of them, then reading his way from inside out. He wouldn't have discovered his love for flying or climbing trees had his father not put him on a broomstick. Draco guessed that his mother would have preferred him to be the quiet bookish type, for she thought Quidditch to be far too brutish. He was just then oddly reminded of...something, a faint scent—or perhaps the memory of a scent—in the back of his mind. It somehow reminded him of the wind and the earth all at once, but was unable to place it. The memory of broomstick handle polish came to mind as he breathed in the scent of the books, and then something sort of fruity and sweet, oddly dancing with the smell of ice and snow. Where did he smell that before? A book caught his eye: L'art de L'amour.

Draco plucked the book from the shelf; it was well-read and dog-eared. He opened it and immediately shut it, his face flushing red at the _very_ graphic drawings on the inside. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure nobody was nearby, and then gingerly opened it again. His eyebrow quirked, then his brow furrowed in fascination. Was this a kind of... _handbook_ for lovemaking? That's foul! How vile! How absolutely uncivilized! Look at these drawings—some poor unfortunate woman had to sit there with her legs spread _wide_ open for some sick pervert to sketch a diagram of her— And these positions? Pages and _pages_ of these truly perverse positions and techniques of— Well... _Nobody_ should own this...

" _Diminuendo_ ," whispered Draco to the book as he tapped it with his wand, and it shrunk to the size of a knut in his palm. He quickly shut his hand and stuffed his wand back into his pocket and looked over to Ella, who was coming up to a salesgirl with an extremely thick book in her hand.

" _Pardon._ _S'il vous plaît, madame, vous avez des livres de cuisine française en anglaise_?"

The salesgirl rolled her eyes and walked away back to the counter, where she busied herself with a pile of invoices. Ella looked surprised, but she didn't look terribly offended or crestfallen; with her grandmother, Draco guessed she was used to how famously grouchy the French could be. He came up next to her.

"Are you really telling me," began Draco, tucking the shrunken pilfered tome in his pocket, "that you still can't speak French after all this time?"

"Of course not," Ella protested, thumbing the book's spine. "I speak French fine enough, I just...can't read it." Draco laughed so hard that everyone stared. He then shook his head and took the thick tome from her hands, titled Gastronomique, and opened it to a random page.

"If you can read Spanish, you can read French," he teased. She rolled her eyes. He pointed with his finger at a paragraph, beneath a photograph of a chef stuffing a hen. "Come, Ella. Give it a try. What's that say?" He caught a whiff of her perfume—or was it her shampoo?—and a memory jogged in his mind, but for the life of him he couldn't recall what that memory was.

"Ugh," she sighed. "Be— bay—" Ella snorted through her throat. "Ahm... _Baigner..._ luh—er, _les_ _cuisses..._ wash— _wash_ the thighs—?"

"No, _bathe_ the thighs—"

"—Okay, bathe the thighs, _en beurre_ —uh, in butter..." She blinked hard, shaking her head. "I hate reading in French, it makes me so cross-eyed..."

He smiled and handed her the book, which she took with both hands. He put his hand on the small of her back and pointed to the next sentence with the other hand. "You're doing fine. Go on, keep going. What's this word here?"

" _Farcez_...'stuff'... Uh... 'Pow— uh, _poulet_...the hen. Stuff the hen...until..." She frowned.

"'Until,'" he read, "'until she just — can't — take it — anymore'..." A beat. Ella closed her eyes and wheezed through her teeth, burying her forehead in the folds of the book.

"It _so_ doesn't say that," she laughed, closing the volume.

"Does so! Open it again," he chortled. "I'll go through the whole chapter with you."

"Alright, alright, I've had it..." She turned around and went to the counter, putting the book down. " _Je veux acheter_ _cela, s'il vous plaît,_ " she said to the salesgirl.

" _Ce livre n'est pas en anglais,_ " deadpanned she.

" _Alors. Je vais apprende,_ " Ella replied with an adorable amount of resolve. She then held up a square sort of thing that looked like a thick playing card, and handed it over. The salesgirl made a face and then put the card in a mechanical type of contraption, which spit out a long, thin scroll of snow white parchment, which Ella signed with a featherless quill. The salesgirl then handed the card _back,_ wrapped up the book in parchment, and put it in a bag and handed it over. " _Merci! B_ _onne journée._ " The French salesgirl faked a smile then rolled her eyes the moment Ella's back was turned. They exited the book shop.

"What was that?" asked Draco once they were outside.

She handed him the card, which was rather thin but had a series of numbers and then her name, Ella X Zamora, embossed on it. It had a thick black stripe on the underside, and it felt rather smooth in his hand.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's money!" she exclaimed in an excited whisper. "It's really neat. You swipe this thingy as many times as you want, and then No-Majs just _give_ you stuff. And it never gets any smaller! Then, about a month later, a letter comes to your house and tells you how much you spent. All you do then is just go to Gringott's and they pay it _for_ you, right out of your account! No more needing to carry around a coin purse, no more heavy jingles in your pockets, just a simple little card in your clutch."

"That sounds...suspicious," he said with a frown.

"But it's not!" she argued. "Seriously, you can take these things anywhere and spend as much as you want, no matter what! And you just pay it off later. I think it's a breakthrough, personally. We should have our own version, I think. Maybe a magic purse that somehow connects to your vault, so when you reach into it, you can just...pluck out the money as you need it?"

Draco examined the card. "It sounds...odd." Ella shrugged. "You're really okay with this?" She nodded.

"Of course. What better way to blend in?"

"Why in the world would you want to blend in when you're born to stand out?"

"Because standing out is how you get murdered?" She was trying to joke, but Draco could hear that hidden pain in her voice, which was perhaps invisible to everyone else. Ella, like many, joked when she was in pain. He supposed one never truly recovered from a parent being murdered, especially senselessly. He put his arm around her shoulders as they walked, and she, in turn, put her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. Draco felt a warm glow in his chest, like sunlight, like flowers blooming.

"Well..." He began, holding up the money card. "Shall we try to find somewhere to eat?"

She took her card back with her free hand. "Up for an adventure?" she asked. She then squirmed playfully from his arms and turned the corner to an alley and held out her hand with a mischievous grin from the shadows. Draco smiled, crept into the shadows and took her hand. Their fingers laced. He blinked; they disapparated and found themselves at the Eiffel tower.

Muggles all around were taking photographs, kissing on picnic blankets, playing with their dogs and children. The sheen of silvery water on the pavement had confirmed Draco's earlier suspicion that they had come just after a rain. It was the damp chestnut trees that made Paris smell the best. Ella smiled and kept her fingers laced with his, guiding him towards the base of the tower.

"I thought we were avoiding magical Paris?" he whispered to her.

"Which is why we're going to the No-Maj side." He tensed, a little, but then convinced himself that there was nothing wrong with eating near Muggles. He'd been through far worse in his life; a single dinner prepared by a muggle chef wasn't going to be the thing that did him in.

The elevator was rung up for them, and they got the entire thing to themselves. Ella took out her wand, when they were alone, and waved it over her pretty green froc, which sparkled and changed into a short black one-shouldered cocktail dress that fell at mid thigh. Playful tendrils of chiffon, a bit reminiscent of graceful jellyfish tentacles, hung down here and there off the skirt and down the back to form a train, all down to her ankles. She pulled out her clutch and refreshed her red lipstick. Draco smoothed back his hair and adjusted his tie.

"You look beautiful," he said, watching her rub lipstick off her teeth. She laughed a little, and twirled her wand to pull her hair half up and away from her pretty face. She combed her fingers through her bangs to smooth them to hang just above her left eye.

"Thanks," she said, avoiding his eyes, which reminded him that they were only friends, having dinner. There was a bit of a wait, once they got to the top, but before they knew it they were sitting at a table for two, watching the sun set over the Seine. Paris's rooftops were shining like copper in the golden light, and the entire city seemed to be singing the songs of joy. He opened the menu and realized that many of was comparable to the cuisine of the wizarding world. Draco's eyes found themselves towards Ella, who was doing a very good job at pretending to read the menu. The _garçon_ oddly only addressed Draco when asking about their wine selections, but Ella's look suggested this was normal. Feeling adventurous, Draco ordered them a bottle of champagne.

"Are we celebrating something?" she asked as the sommelier poured.

Draco raised his flute. "To friendship," he suggested. Ella smirked, then raised her own flute.

"To friendship," she agreed. They somehow avoided the cliche of being in the most-romantic place in the world by visiting it together as friends. He wasn't certain how he ultimately felt about it. He supposed, however, he could be happy enough that she was talking to him. My God, she was gorgeous, though, in the light of the setting sun. "I love champagne," she commented.

"I thought you would have liked it," he said, sipping.

"Well, you know me—" _I do know you..._ "—Every chance to celebrate, I do." She folded the menu open, and then sighed through her nose. "I think that every day is a gift, you know? Celebrate the big victories. Celebrate the small victories. Those things, or...looking _forward_ to those things are sometimes the things that get you through..." She trailed off.

"...The hard things?" Ella smiled, a _real_ one. "Shall I order for us?" he teased. Ella rolled her eyes with a toothy grin and snapped the menu shut and handed it to him. "No olives, right?" She frowned and smiled all at once. He refreshed her champagne flute.

"You trying to get me drunk?" He snickered through his nose. "You'll go broke."

He quirked an eyebrow. "I thought _you_ were buying this one, Miss Muggle-money."

She looked as if she were going to knock back the champagne, but sipped it delicately instead. "Just as well. You couldn't out-drink me if you tried."

"Oh please," he laughed. He almost immediately regretted it, for Ella got _that_ look in her eye. It was the same look she got in her eye she always got when faced with a challenge. Ella Zamora was terribly frightening in her own way, but frankly it was the part of her that Draco always had admired the most. It was scary, yet exciting, to think that he might see it, one last time, firsthand.

"Ten galleons says I can drink you under the table."

He looked up at her and smiled. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

"Twenty, then."

Draco laughed, incredulous. "Make it a hundred, but not here. I'm not letting you be the loud drunk American tourist atop the Eiffel tower."

Ella's jaw went tight, her eyes went wide and bright, and she leaned forward. "One-hundred galleons to the last one standing at midnight, starting the second we leave this bistro." _Dammit_.

Draco looked up at her. It was a Friday evening, so it wasn't as if he needed to be anywhere the next morning. But what would happen if he had never made it home that night? He hadn't made any plans with his parents or Astoria. It wasn't as if he had a curfew or anything. He could go out if he wanted to... But it was with _Ella_. This wasn't just a binge drinking night with Theo, whom he wouldn't—he hoped to _God_ —accidentally end up inside of after one too many firewhiskies. Perhaps, however, in light of the circumstances, Draco could look at this as...saying goodbye to the one person he ever truly loved, and—perhaps—loved him back.

Perhaps it was truly time to close this chapter in his life. Perhaps this was his chance to gain some closure and say farewell to his first love. Perhaps it was a sign that now was the time to grow up and carry on. Astoria was pure of heart and he owed her a clean start of some sort, didn't he? His past with Ella was far too messy. He could love Astoria someday, now that he knew he was capable of loving someone else. He smiled at her.

Draco raised his glass. "You're on." The glasses clinked gently, and he summoned the _garçon,_ who bowed. " _Commençons avec les huîtres..._ "

* * *

Oh yeah. Gonna leave it off there.

Emotions are running high. Is Ella acting a little weird? Do we _know_ what's going on inside her head? We're sort of getting back to where the story began, right after she got back to Brazil. We know that she was dating Neville before she left, and spent about two years there. She's just gotten back, and lots of things have happened between her graduating and her coming back to the UK. We have no idea what her mental state is until we see her POV chapter while she's dating Percy. Don't worry, my angels, all will be revealed soon...even if Draco's acting like an emotional mess, which we all know he's capable of being. (Geminis, amirite ladies?)

Oh, and yes. Draco TOTALLY stole a copy of a Kama sutra-esque book. Perv.


	23. Chapter 23

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Narcissa 41**

* * *

There was a strange sort of joy, anticipation, anxiousness growing within her as she climbed the stairs. As she climbed, she heard the music, the lilting notes from her son's piano. It was only a few notes, on the higher octaves, he was likely fingering absentmindedly. When she came to the fourth floor, on the north wing, she heard the harmony, the supporting notes, the counterpoint, playing without any rhyme or reason. She came to his door, which was closed over, yet open enough to let the sound come through. He was playing in F#minor, soulful and sad, yet somehow ethereal. Music had been the only thing that she and Lucius had in common; he, like all Malfoys before him, could play the organ, while she played piano and harp. It was a mutual love, a gift, they had both given to their beloved Draco, the light of their lives, the shimmering star eternal in a lifetime of darkness. That's why he was named, like all Blacks before him, after the stars. Draco of the deep northern sky, guiding all, stretching and flying eternally. Her own little dragon's wings were broken, or perhaps they functioned perfectly and he had no desire to fly anymore.

Narcissa pressed gently against his door, peeking in gingerly. She glanced up and noticed his ceiling, bewitched to look eternally like the north-facing night sky on the eve that he was born. He was sitting at his piano, thankfully dressed, his room decently clean and his bed made, but she noticed a rather large pile of envelopes tipped into the wastebasket, along with a green box, half open with some black silk ribbon. Frowning, she crossed the floor and went to the box, picked it up, and opened it to reveal a glossy, shimmering, golden cake with red cherries in the middle of thick cut pineapple rings. A wafting scent of caramel and, curiously, sweet corn danced with the fruit in her lungs. The box must have been enchanted to keep its contents eternally fresh; she opened the box all the way to see a message written on the box's top underside: " _Happy 16th Birthday, Draco! I baked this myself. I hope you like it! (Write me back if you don't. I can bake you something else.) From Ella_ " Narcissa was appalled.

"That's mine!" She looked up to see her son had turned around at the piano bench, frowning at her.

"And you threw it away?" she gasped, stunned. "This girl made a lovely gesture for your birthday and you threw it away!" She all but slammed the box down on the desk in frustration. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, that is _extremely_ rude of you!" she nearly shouted. "It looks as if you didn't even try it. Did you even send a 'thank you'?" Draco turned away, his hands on the keys, his head slumped beneath his shoulders. Narcissa softened her eyes, overwhelmed with remorse for raising her voice. She wanted to say she was sorry, for everything. She glanced down at the rest of the pile. They were all letters, some half-opened and some not opened at all. She saw a few from his friend Theodore sitting on his desk, opened and ready to be answered, but it looked as if all of the ones from everyone else had been thrown away. Narcissa quickly reminded herself that her son was entitled to some privacy and came to him on the piano, and put her hand on his shoulder.

She looked at her son, all fair and wiry. It was so hard to believe that he was once a fat little baby, cradled in her arms. He'd grown so much over the last year, and gotten so much stronger than he had been before. She barely recognized him when he'd come home for summer break; though he was obviously in some distress over the current situation, she noticed over the course of the trial that many of his suits had to be let out around his chest and arms, the tailor noting that he'd put on quite a bit of muscle. Even his hair was different, which seemed to now flow softly and freely instead of always being slicked back. She didn't know what to think of her son turning into a brute, but becoming so athletic had made him strong, just in time for his father being sent to Azkaban to make him weak. She glanced at the sheet music on his piano, the one in front was half-composed, and she smiled at herself for guessing the correct key, F#minor. He'd spilled a bit of ink on his piano keys, too; if Lucius had seen he would have scolded Draco for ruining his things. Narcissa stroked his hair gently, all soft and fine, like silk. She peeked gently into his mind, only to hear his voice going " _LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA"_ so loudly she almost laughed.

"You're getting very good at occlumency," she commented.

"Perhaps I wouldn't have to be getting so good if my mother would learn to leave me alone," he growled. She might have scolded him for being rude, but he was having a very rough time, so she decided to leave it alone. She put both of her arms around his waist and leaned her chin on his forehead.

"I think I know what might make you feel better," she whispered. Draco quickly shrugged her away and stood up.

"Mother, please," he snapped, walking briskly to the window. She noticed his half-open sleeve on his left arm, which was healing from the bite. They had scrubbed it with every salve, scoured the entire county for every ounce of dittany available, but the scar wouldn't shrink. Narcissa quickly reminded herself that it wasn't his fault that he was emotional, angry. But a girl that was a naturally gifted potioneer, already mastering the Wolfsbane potion at 16 would be a good thing for Draco, at very least, to be friends with. Severus said that she didn't know, but if she was truly as bright as she seemed to be, then it was wise to pursue her.

"That girl is quite lovely, Draco," she mentioned, leaning against the wall.

"What girl?" he asked without turning around.

"Pansy Parkinson," she quipped. He quickly turned around, his brow furrowed in question. Narcissa laughed through her nose. "At least you're looking at me, now." She sat on his piano bench. "In fairness, you _did_ escort her to the Yule Ball when the Triwizard Tournament came. You said that she was the best Slytherin House had to offer. She's your fellow prefect, as well, is she not?" Draco didn't say anything; he simply leaned away from the window and walked to his bed, sitting down. "You don't like her anymore?" Again, Draco said nothing. "May I ask why?" He looked away. Narcissa stood and crossed the floor and sat next to her on on his bed. "Darling, you used to tell me everything. Won't you tell me?" Draco shrugged. "Well," said Mrs. Malfoy. "I suppose she wasn't that special to begin with. Though I'd hate to think your affections are fickle—"

"—I'm not fickle!" he argued, his head snapping around to face her.

"Then why—?"

"—Mother, please! It's not that Pansy isn't—" He stopped and sighed through his nose. "It's just that she's—" He looked away, sighing again. "She's fine. There's nothing _wrong_ with Pansy. She's... It's just..." Draco got a quite faraway look in his eye as he looked out the window. Narcissa turned her head to see a flock of birds flying in formation towards the west. "Have you ever wanted something more?"

"More than what?" she asked, trying to sound lighthearted. Surely, he wasn't wanting for anything; they'd given him everything he could desire and more since the day he was born.

"Devotion is all well and good, I suppose, and Pansy was absolutely devoted to me. She swooned at me, she always cared about me and my needs first, she was always there, fawning over me when I got hurt or staring lovingly at me whenever I said something funny. She stared at me as if I was Merlin himself. She looked at me as if I was the gift to end all gifts. She simply existed for me and my needs."

"As well she should, my northern star," insisted Narcissa. "Devotion is what makes a good—"

"—Mother, honestly!" sneered her son. "It's nothing—it's shallow, is what it is. I don't want blind devotion, I want somebody with half a brain! I want somebody I can _talk_ to! _I_ want somebody who...reads." Draco stood up and began pacing. "Pansy is someone I can't _talk to_. I can talk _at_ her all I like, and she'll swoon and sigh and agree with absolutely everything I say, no matter what. She's just a— She's a— Well, she's a-a-a sycophant!"

"'Sycophant?'" Narcissa wasn't quite sure where he'd picked that up the idea that endless devotion was such a bad quality in a girl.

"Do you know that I once asked Pansy what her favorite food was? Without missing a beat, she said 'What's _your_ favorite food, Draco?' and when I told her what mine was she said it was the same. Do you know what _Ella's_ favorite food is? It's lobster. She hates every single olive ever created. She likes coffee and cheesecake and licorice wands. She likes rainy, cloudy days and her favorite season is winter. She hates Divination, even though she got an Outstanding in it, and all I can gather from that is that she hates it when someone tells her what to do. She doesn't back down from fights. She's _loud_ and _bossy_ and _opinionated_ , and best of all she actually _gives_ a damn about my opinions, too. Do you know how I know that? Because she asks me questions; she's so nosy that she questions _everything_. I always _know_ that she's listening to me because she tells me what she thinks about everything I say, whether I want her to or not. Do you know how annoying that is? Do you know what that's like?"

It struck her just then that Narcissa genuinely did not know what that was like. She knew Lucius's opinions, always, but never his opinions on _her_ opinions.

"Everything I say is challenged; everything! Why do I think _this_ or why do I do _that_ —? 'Draco, what do you think about _this_?' 'Draco, those earrings are ugly!' 'Draco, come and dance with me!' 'Draco, just because you're handsome doesn't mean you get to be rude!' 'Draco, come to the choir performance tonight!' 'Draco, come audition for John Smith in my Thanksgiving play!' 'Draco, come to the Snowman Building contest I've organized!' 'Draco, only _losers_ focus on beating others!' 'Draco, I'm going to _enjoy_ chasing you around on the back of a hippogriff!'"

"She what—?!" she gasped.

"She's so bloody annoying! Everything she says has to _mean_ something and therefore everything _I_ say has to mean something, too! Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to actually have to _think_ about everything you say and do and believe, all the time, because your nosy girlfriend might ask 'why?'" He paced again. "And every time she gets mad at me, she starts screaming at me in _Spanish_. Do you know what the word is for 'listen to me, you asshole' in Spanish? Because _I_ do."

"Draco, I don't understand! Up until now, you've said nothing but lovely things about her—"

"Mother," began Draco, his eyes full of emotion. "She's always in my face because that's what _real_ friends do and I don't know how to handle it." He gulped. "Do you know what it's like to have someone _actually care_? Without any agenda, any rhyme or reason for doing so? Do you know what it's like to have someone see you as an _equal_?" Without waiting for her to respond, he pulled back the sleeve on his left arm, showing her the horrific red scar where he thought his Dark Mark should have gone. "Do you know what the Spanish word is for _werewolf_?" His jaw tightened. "How can I face her—?" he choked.

"Draco—" Narcissa quickly came to her son and wrapped her arms tight around him, kissing away any tears that threatened to spill. "Draco, it's alright. Here, roll down your sleeve, my star. Nobody will notice. Remember, nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent."

He tore himself away angrily. "Do you _really_ believe that?"

"Draco, please don't raise your voice at me," Narcissa implored. The room was tense. The clock struck four. Draco suddenly laughed quietly, his eyes brimming with tears.

"Y'know, if I ever raised my voice at Ella..." he began. "She doesn't hesitate to put me in my place." Her son scoffed. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I really like her. She's so different. You look at her and you can just see a million thoughts racing through her mind all at once; it's like watching a colony of bees." He sighed through his nose, calming his quivering emotions. "I can't believe I like someone so much that drives me so crazy." There was a very long pause.

"Would you be upset," began Narcissa, "if I were to invite her to dinner?" Draco tensed, his pale cheeks came to life with red in a very funny way. Perhaps she had been too hasty in extending an invitation to the girl; she had been admittedly hysterical at Severus's little house. Draco was always fond of surprises as a child; she'd hoped that his inquisitive and adventurous nature hadn't yet been snuffed out by the darkness ever growing. Slowly, her son smiled and shook his head. Narcissa sighed a bit in relief. "Good. Because I ran into her earlier today."

"What?!" gasped Draco, his eyes wider than she thought possible. "Where?!"

"On her way home," she said, deciding that a little white lie wouldn't hurt. Draco gulped. Narcissa noted just how big his Adam's apple was now; he was truly growing up fast. "Unless there's another Ella Zamora walking around somewhere," she mused in hopes of Draco smiling. He didn't. "She's very pretty, for her type."

Draco tensed suddenly, seemingly a little insulted. He frowned.

Narcissa smiled to appease him. "All I meant was...well, she just looks very Spanish. Monegasque. Exotic. Her eyes are so lovely; almond-shaped..." He still seemed annoyed. "I've asked her to come tonight at 8 o' clock, with her grandmother." Draco shot his eyes to the clock.

"That's four hours from now!" he protested.

"Plenty of time to have the house ready for guests." He seemed distressed. Narcissa grinned in the most comforting, charming way she could. She cupped his pale cheek. "At very least, we can enjoy some lobster for dinner, even if she doesn't come." His face felt a little hot in her hand. "You mustn't be terribly disappointed if she can't, love. It _is_ rather short notice, you must admit." He nodded silently. "There. Why don't you have a bath, while I see to supper?" He nodded again, color showing in his cheeks. After a moment, he smiled, and it filled Narcissa's heart with joy.

* * *

The clock chimed 7:30 and the sun was beginning to set. Draco watched the western sky from the drawing room, obviously nervous. This was a good place to wait, for the large mantle was immediately below in the entryway, which is where they could floo in, should they have chosen to come that way. He looked so much like his father, the way he stood. He had certainly made an effort; combed hair, polished shoes...it was the first time he seemed to have put a genuine effort into his looks since the trial had ended. Bella was pacing, like a tiger in a cage, obviously displeased for some reason or another.

"This isn't a good time, Cissy," she hissed scornfully under her breath. "Distracting Draco from the Dark Lord's mission set forth for him—"

"—You be quiet!" she snapped in a whisper. "You be quiet right now!" Bella's eyes went wide. "You will _not_ ruin this for Draco—! This is his chance at happiness—"

"—He can be happy when he's killed—!"

"—Mother, look!" The sisters' heads turned to the sky, and a silhouette grew. They came to the window to see a carriage, pulled by a winged horse of some type. They quickly scurried downstairs to the entryway, the doors to the manor flying open. She flicked her wand to light all of the candles and bid Draco come to her once more to check his hair. He, instead, stopped at the mirror by the door, adjusted himself, and walked out. She waved her wand again for the gate to open, and in came a gleaming white pegasus with polished golden hooves, the largest she'd ever seen, at least 19 hands.

The carriage itself appeared to be something out of the 1700s, flourishing with a grandiose amount of gold and glimmering Beauxbatons blue that it was positively gauche, with equally gauche carriage drivers and footmen, dressed all in white, save for the gold masks, which looked as if they belonged in a Venitian ball and not on the faces of servants. The footmen hopped off and stood on either side of the carriage door, which swung open with the flick of their wands. A carpet of green unfurled itself all the way up to the front door. They all watched as tiny stars began to glow against the green, and the stars' light began to glow and bloom, bigger and bigger, until they finally formed into a carpet of white magnolia flowers, perfuming the arrival of their guests.

A green shoe, sparkling and glittering, appeared in the light, and attached to it was the leg of a dark-skinned girl in a shimmery silver dress that fell just above her knee, overlaid entirely with form-fitting lace in the same shade, all to create a pretty off-the-shoulder neckline and elbow-length sleeves. Her hair was swept half-up and tucked into a bejeweled diadem, which nestled itself nicely in her thick black curls. She had to stop herself from sighing at the way Draco puffed his chest up when he saw her; she worried that the next line of Malfoys would be dark, like her. The feeling quickly went away when she saw how happy he looked, even if the girl _was_ wearing makeup around her eyes. True to form, she gave a polite nod of the head before crossing halfway to meet them. At the halfway point, as is custom, she curtsied low, which is when the receiving family greets their guest with either a bow or a curtsy, respectively. It was at that moment Narcissa noticed the footman holding his hand out to aid, what she assumed, was Ella's grandmother; and all at once she bloomed.

Out of the carriage flourished a statuesque witch in a magnificent black dress, with a deep plunging sweetheart neckline that any other grandmother might balk at. An equally magnificent black hat was dipped below one eye, almond-shaped and expertly lined; a pair of red lips grinned smugly. Opera gloves went all up her long, thin arms, and as she stepped onto the magnolia carpet, a summer breeze came and revealed the slit in her dress. It might have been gauche had it been on a younger woman, but it seemed oddly terrifying to see a woman of that age wearing something like that with such comfort and confidence. It was quite clear that she was a real Monegasque, and the way she glided towards them was almost otherworldly.

"Welcome," Narcissa greeted, "to Malfoy Manor. I am Narcissa Malfoy, and you must be Ella's grandmother?"

The French witch extended her gloved hand. "Helene Christophe," she said in a _very_ thick French accent. " _Enchanté._ " She gestured to Ella. "I would introduce 'er, but I believe you 'ave already 'ad ze pleaszure, _madame_."

"And what a pleasure it is to finally be in her good graces. We've heard nothing but lovely things about Ella." They all smiled. Narcissa gestured to Draco. "Madame Christophe, I'd like to present my son, Draco Lucius Malfoy." Draco smiled and kissed Madame Christophe's hand.

" _Je suis ravi recontrez-vous, Madame. Bienvenue."_

She seemed rather amused, for she stifled a laugh and nodded her elegant head. " _Merci, Draco_." She nodded pointedly to Bella. "Your maiden aunt?"

"Ahm—" He turned to his aunt. " _Je veux vous présenter ma tante,_ Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Yesz," she said to Draco with a wry grin. "Your French eez very good. _C'est tres bien._ " She leaned in. "But eet eez moszt unnecessary, I assure you." She nodded pointedly towards Ella. "My granddaughter won't underzstand a word." The girl rolled her eyes with a self-deprecating smile and a shrug. She then looked to Bella. "Madame, 'ow nice of you to zsay 'ello." Her sister looked tense. "Eez your 'uzband 'ere? Or are you jjust veeziting?" This was unexpected; a bit of panic filled her heart. Bella was a loose cannon, and the last thing that was needed was for her to insult her guests. "I zsee. _Alors_ , we won't keep you. I am sure our children are missing you." The French lady grinned. "Good night, Madame." A nail in the coffin, and Narcissa then understood a bit more of with whom they were dealing. The social contract had almost-nearly been broken, yet it still had to be enforced...the guest was always right. "Ella," said the French lady, glancing at her granddaughter. "Don't be so rude! Say goodnight to Madame Lestrange."

"Oh, sorry!" the girl gasped, obviously feeling quite ill-at-ease. "Goodnight, Madame Lestrange. It was so nice to meet you." Perhaps the girl didn't know what her grandmother was doing; the strong-willed witch at Severus's house seemed squashed beneath her grandmother's will, who was quite obviously a fearsome and formidable woman in her own right. Bella was frozen.

"Good night, Aunt Bella," said Draco, a bit of unrecognizable force and resolve in his voice, his eyes unfaltering at his aunt. Narcissa was inwardly overwhelmed with shock and relief. Narcissa had lived in a dream as a Queen as a Malfoy, but she'd always had the fear of her elder sister in the back of her mind. She couldn't have Bella ruin this evening for Draco...Bella didn't have children; she wouldn't understand. "Thank you for taking time to say hello," finished Draco, his eyes locking with her sister's.

"Yes, good night, Bella." Before she could protest, Narcissa pulled her by the shoulders to an embrace, and whispered in her ear "Please. For me."

Without even looking at her, Bella hurriedly stormed inside. A breath was let out of Narcissa's chest, and a great deal of relief washed over her. All Narcissa wanted was _one_ evening that hadn't dealt with politics, and that was impossible when her sister was there. The French lady grinned when they made eye contact.

"Oh, look! You have peacocks!" said the American girl, charmingly changing the subject. Narcissa came to her side, the scent of magnolia blooms filling the summery night air. The girl quickly snapped her head to the side to acknowledge her with a smile. "They're all white."

"Magnificent, aren't they? They're the descendants of a Persian wizard the Malfoys once befriended, many centuries ago," Narcissa explained. "We've since gotten more, from India, as they're social creatures that prefer company."

"I've named them all," said Draco proudly. The American girl glanced over her shoulder, seemingly amused. He came up to her side and pointed to the keening peacock atop the hedge, its crest ruffling a bit. "That one's called Octavius."

"'Octavius,'" repeated the girl, smiling.

"Yes," answered Draco, seeming a tish annoyed. Oh dear, this wasn't starting well.

"Oh, really?" giggled she.

"Yes, really," insisted Draco, going a bit red in the face.

"Well, ahm, I don't know how to tell you this—" said she, looking up at the peacock, "—but _he_ says his name is Kamal." There was a tense pause.

"You'll 'ave to forgeev my granddaughter," said Madame Christophe. "She eez _Americenne_ and razzer eel-mannered." The American girl then looked rather embarrassed, and seemed to shrink into her own slumped shoulders.

"Kamal is a nice name," said Draco just then, causing Narcissa to look up in surprise. Draco then looked to the peacock and bowed his head. "Kamal," he greeted, and the peacock fanned his great snow white train in a glorious display. The American girl then shimmied her body quickly, almost as if a whole chill had gone up and down her spine all at once. She bowed her head.

"You can speak with animals?" asked Narcissa.

"Ella is an Animagus," boasted Draco, his head high. He then looked at her with a smile. "She can turn into a raven. She can also speak with all manners of avian creature. And speak Parseltongue."

"An Animagus?" breathed Narcissa in admiration.

"You're quite young to be an Animagus," said Mrs. Malfoy.

"She came out of ze womb like zat," said Madame Christophe. "We all worried she would not make eet. A very rare case—"

" _Meme_ ," whispered Ella Zamora, obviously quite embarrassed suddenly. There was a pause.

"Shall we go inside?" suggested Narcissa, gesturing to the manor.

"Actually—" the American girl spoke up. "—There's still a bit of daylight left. Is there time to see the gardens?" Madame Christophe didn't look pleased, but she didn't look displeased, either.

"Of course," said Draco, almost immediately, with a smile. "There's not enough time to tour the entire hedge maze, as it is quite expansive, but we can see the Southern Gardens." He offered his arm to the girl. "Malfoy Manor faces the east, so they're just this way through that arch."

"What arch?" asked she, looking to the hedge. Narcissa recalled the first time Lucius showed her that way to the gardens. Her son nodded pointedly towards it. She looked to her grandmother, who then nodded, looking annoyed, before taking Draco's arm. The French were famously grouchy people, but the Monegasque often had a great lust for life; it was obvious which Helene Christophe identified with.

Draco guided her to the hedge; Narcissa and Helene followed. She watched the girl try to slow her pace, but Draco kept going, and the hedge grew away and opened up to a sculpted arch, which earned a gasp.

"Ooooh, that's cool!" exclaimed the American girl, which earned a stifled sigh of exasperation from her grandmother, at Narcissa's side.

"Blood magic," Draco explained. "Malfoy Manor was built eleven centuries ago, and boasts the ultimate strongholds in ancient magic. Centuries ago, during the great wars, giants, trolls, and more of the like have been devoured by this maze, which is welcome only to those which are invited, and accompanied by one of Malfoy blood." They walked through the archway, the roses all in bloom in a glorious array of white along the hedge walls. "I can walk straight through the maze, if I want to."

"What if you wanted to stroll through the hedge maze, Mrs. Malfoy?" asked the girl, glancing over her shoulder at Narcissa. "Does Draco have to go with you all the time?"

 _What a sweet question..._ "I'm already on the inside, Miss Zamora," she chided. "The magic extends through marriage." She guessed that they didn't have that sort of thing in America, as this was quite a common magic in old Pureblooded society in this country, all known to the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

"You needn't call me that, Mrs. Malfoy—'Ella' is just fine," she said, smiling, turning her eyes forward.

"What a sweet girl," whispered Narcissa to Madame Christophe. "She's so friendly," she said.

Madame Christophe sighed through her nose. She produced a scroll of parchment in her gloved hand, which seemed to be a Patent of Purity, by the ribbons and coins dangling out of the edge. "Ella's papers," she said quietly as they reached the Southern Gardens, a glorious expanse of trimmed hedges, hollyhocks, crystal clear pond with black swans swimming in them, beneath the stone bridge. Wiltshire was truly a gorgeous county, and Narcissa was proud to call it her home. Draco gestured around, pointing out the blooming flowers, the greenhouse in the distance, the rolling hills and the apple orchard nearby; everything seemed to excite her, and Narcissa could see what Draco was talking about. Every word warranted a response, a question, and a thoughtful continuance to the conversation. Narcissa glanced at the Patents, waiting patiently in Madame Christophe's hand.

"So she _does_ wish to marry?" asked Narcissa, taking the scroll.

"Frankly, I 'aven't any clue what 'er wishez are, uzzer zan to be a potioneer." Narcissa unfurled the scrolls, which were quite expansive, dating back all the way to the 6th century. Narcissa even recognized a name of the Black family, married to Gawain Mason, which was the name of the Spellings before they beget their last daughter... Mason became Spelling some time in the 18th century; but they were all there, traces of them... The Blacks and the Selwyns, the Macmillans and the Rowles; all of them were sprinkled here and there in Ella's bloodline. The name Archibald Spelling, Ella's maternal grandfather, stuck out in Narcissa's mind, but she couldn't recall why.

"Impeccable," gasped Narcissa. "Absolutely impeccable! A shock, then, that the Spellings are not a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight..."

Madame Christophe waved her hand dismissively. "Bah. Couzzins, 'ere and zere, marrying 'alf-breedz and mugglez. But not our line. My Archibald wuz a real zsouroughbread. Zat man was a real weezard. And our Penelope was a powerful witch."

"Yes," Narcissa's throat felt a little tight, sadly only remembering bits and pieces of her when they were children. "I've heard what happened to her. Such a tragedy. No mother should bury her child." Madame Christophe kept her eyes forward, watching her granddaughter, who had become quite fascinated with the gazebo, the columns of which were carved from white jade, a gift from a very generous wizard from China. "I hadn't any idea of such things...Scourers."

" _Oui,"_ agreed the elegant French lady. "We 'ad 'eard zat Amereeca wuz going to be better for us; 'ow wrong we were." She sighed again. "Ah, well. _C'est la vie._ Penelope survived long enough to raise a razzer extraordinary girl." She gestured to the scrolls in Narcissa's hand. "Champion duelist, champion potioneer...all zat she doesz, she winsz at. She eez a winner. I am not zsuprized zat Draco 'as shown interest. I confessz zat I am, 'owever, zsurprized zat you weesh to pursue 'er."

Narcissa nodded in an understanding way. Under other circumstances, she might not have considered the girl at all. She was, after all, an American. "I must admit, I'm surprised myself," she said, honestly. "It wouldn't have occurred to me to seek out an American for my son. I hadn't any clue that Hogwarts had begun an exchange program."

"Eet eez very exclusive. You 'ave to be a beet of an over-achiever to be conzsidered. I, myself, attended a year in Mahoutokoro when I was a girl."

"The Japanese wizarding school?"

"Ah, _oui_. I learned a great deal zere. Ze Japanese weezards are...rigorous een wayz zat we shall never know."

"Does the exchange program only match for all magical schools, then?"

" _Mais oui_. _Alors_ , only a zselect few are ever conzsidered to uze eet. A part of me wuz razzer disappointed when Penelope wazsn't invited, but I blame ze move from 'Ogwartz to Ilvermorny on 'er slipping gradez. She wasn't a good student. Not like Ella." A faint smile graced her lips. A few house elves bearing silver trays came from the house and offered canapes, which Madame Christophe politely declined, while Draco and Ella both picked up. One had truffled quail's egg on toast, and another had langoustines suspended in champagne jellies; Ella seemed to rather enjoy the foie gras rissoles with pomegranate seeds and pistachios, of which she ate four. Madame Christophe shook her head. "'Ow zat girl doeszn't bust out of everyzsing she ownz eez beyond me. Eef I wuzsn't zso rich, she would eat me out of 'ouse and 'ome." She then gave Narcissa a look. "I know zat I ought not to zsay zsuch 'arsh wordz about my own grandchild. I am 'ard on 'er. I do not deny it. Eet eez out of love, Madame. Love for my blood."

She gave a sad smile. "I understand," she said. "My mother, Druella, was hard on us, too. She used to make me wash my face in ice water, always convinced it wasn't clean enough. I was very grateful to her, you know. She wanted us to be all that we could be."

Madame Christophe grinned, her eyes soft. "Eezn't eet funny? We shower our sonz wees good sense and love everyzsthing zeir 'eartz dezire, and we shower our daughterz weez restrictionsz and rulez."

Narcissa paused. "Yes," she said, a bit shaken to the core. "How funny indeed." Madame Christophe laughed just then.

"Not Ella. Not 'er. Not a rule een zsight for 'er. I believe zat she zsinkz zat she can rule ze world because nobody told 'er zat she cannot. Or per'apz zey did, and she eez determined to prove zem wrong." Narcissa was unsure what to think, or what to say next. "I believe zat women like you and I cannot afford dishonesty een ze 'ome. We are surrounded by eet already, _oui_?" Her throat went tight. "I want to be clear weez you, Madame Malfoy. Ella eez a 'andful. She eez willful. Stubborn. But she eez also powerful. Ambitiousz. You put 'er to a task, and eet will be done. I just don't believe zat you want someone like 'er for a daughter-een-law."

She looked to Draco, who was smiling, laughing with the girl in front of him. She was pointing to the apple orchard in the distance, and she could hear bits and pieces of what they were saying as they strolled as leisurely as they could along the path. Draco came up next to her and pointed at the orchard, and took her hand in his. "It's not about what I want," said Narcissa. "This is about what Draco wants. And he wants her...a willful, Parseltongue-speaking Animagus."

"A language elective at Ilvermorny," she explained. "She took eet all of 'er yearsz zere. I will zsay, she eez addicted to learning." Narcissa's brows raised, impressed.

"Well, we do have a rather expansive library here, in the east wing, magically expanded until it has become one of the most-impressive private collections on the continent. It boasts tomes dating back to before Merlin's time, many of them in Welsh, some in Old English...which Draco can read."

"Ah, _oui_?"

"Oh, yes. Draco speaks French and some German, but can read many more languages than that. He's the Slytherin team's Seeker, a Prefect, a natural leader, of course." They strolled along the stone path, following a bit behind the two teens, Draco stopping at the silver-studded rhopaloceroses. Narcissa heard him say 'watch this,' and plucked one of the blooms. "He's also quite knowledgeable in herbology," said Narcissa, as they watched her son hand the American witch the silvery blue flower. She gave a toothy grin, closed her eyes and put it to her nose. She felt a glow of pride, recalling how charming Lucius used to be when they were both young.

All at once, the petals of the flower each turned to a fluttering silver-blue butterfly, which flew up and all around the two in a flight of them, some floating away, some staying on the stem, some landing in the girl's black hair. She gasped and smiled and held out her hand for them, one of which landed upon her little finger. One of the silver-blue butterflies landed on Draco's shoulder before fluttering away in the breeze that soon came. The girl laughed softly, and blew gently on the butterfly's wings as the rest of them all flew off and away to the south. Narcissa glanced to Madame Christophe, who seemed far less impressed.

The sun was just peeking below the horizon, and the lumolotus blooms that floated on the pond were beginning to open, their gentle white glow like tiny stars on the mirror-like water. Draco pointed to them, and explained where they'd gotten them, all that they can do; Narcissa hadn't heard him speak of flowers or plants in many years. Ella seemed very interested, and smiled when Draco offered to send some of them to her home in Monaco, but politely declined when she explained that they lived in a penthouse by the sea, and they seldom visited Chateau Christophe of Plumfield enough to enjoy them.

"They seem to get along well," mentioned Narcissa. "I've heard nothing but lovely things about her all year."

"I 'ave 'eard noszing of 'im all year," said Madame Christophe. "Zen again..." The French lady shrugged. "She doeszn't write 'er fameely musch. Penelope wrote us once a week, but she deedn't 'ave many friendz." The first smile of the evening graced her lips. "Ella eez popular. She writez 'er friendz, sthrowz partiesz... I 'ave enjoyed zees time weez 'er. I am getting to know 'er." Madame Christophe smiled again, Narcissa feeling her defenses lower. "I weel zspeak frank weez you, Madame Malfoy. Eet eez my weesh to keep Ella een Europe after she graduatez. I do not want 'er to go back to New York. Ze Second Salemersz are ever-prezent; I'll not 'ave ze last of my line die at zeir 'and."

"Of course," gasped Narcissa. "I would do the same. To think that Wizards and Witches are hunted like animals by Muggles...well, it's simply unthinkable. Draco even wrote to Lucius and I last year about it."

Madame Christophe gave an unreadable look. "She told 'im?"

She then felt a bit embarrassed. "I oughtn't say much, but Draco seemed rather upset at the thought of—what did you call them?"

"Second Salemersz, Scourer descendentz. Zey protest een public spacesz een New York Ceety, and plenty een Georgia, ze Southzs...everywhere. Zey want to expoze and eradicate ze magical world completely." Narcissa was aghast, not just for the sake of Draco's happiness but for the sake of all Wizards and Witches in America, living with such horrors every day. When the New World Order would rise, Narcissa was going to ask the Dark Lord's favour herself to head next to America, and save them all. "I know eet eez an unconventional topic before a meal, but my daughter Penelope wasz tortured and burned at a zstake, and she wasz far more careful zan Ella." She nodded pointedly to the girl, who was smiling at Draco's side as they talked. "I don't undersztand; she zseemz to zsthink zat noszing can 'urt 'er. Een Amereeca, you cannot afford to be zso reckless."

A pang in her heart rung like a bell; Narcissa understood how deeply she must have feared for the last of her line's safety. As Draco's mother, there is nothing she wouldn't do to ensure his safety. Nothing. "Yes, of course," agreed Narcissa. "I assure you, Madame Christophe, there is no safer place than Malfoy Manor. You were allowed in because we were expecting you. And I assure you that Ella would be absolutely safe here. It has withstood the tests of time since the 10th century, by wizard and muggle attack alike. You will never find a more powerful House to protect her, Madame. On my life, I swear it."

Madame Christophe paused then smiled, then looked back to Ella, who was laughing so hard at one of Draco's jokes it almost seemed ingenuine. Narcissa couldn't remember the last time she laughed that loud. "I 'ave never zseen 'er zat 'appy. "Eet eez getting dark. Shall I try to wrangle 'er in?" Narcissa returned her grin. "Per'apz, eef you like, after zsupper, we can talk zsome numberz."

* * *

Long-ER chapter. I must confess, Helene Christophe is my absolute FAVORITE character, even though I know it _should_ be Ella. Here we have a MASTER Spy, a chessmaster extraordinaire, right in the Snake's den. Is she sincere? Yes and no. Is she a liar? Yes and no. What game is she playing? What do we not know about her intentions? Will we EVER know? Is she just _using_ Ella to play her game, to get inside the Death Eaters and destroy it from within? How far will she go?

I know that a lot of people have this idea of Draco being musical to be a bit far off and fangirl-ish, but I don't think so. If you look at the relationships between Lucius and Draco, I don't think it's far off to think that Lucius is trying to toughen Draco up because he feels he's not smart enough, not strong enough. It's clear that shrewd old Lucius bought the ENTIRE Quidditch team Nimbus 2001s because he wanted to encourage his (obviously sensitive) boy to be more athletic, to get him outdoors. And let's not forget the smash hit "Weasley Is Our King"? Draco wrote that song overnight, which is a violently hilarious use of a creative gift gone awry.

The psychology of the Malfoys is so interesting to me. I think that Draco is just struggling to please his father, a fearsome and formidable man in his eyes, and that's why he's so nasty to others...because Lucius is nasty to him. Bullies only are bullies because it's what they're taught at home. Kindness and compassion are obviously going to be seen as weaknesses, and historically the Malfoys have been Dark Wizards since they arrived on the shores of England in the 1050s. What would happen if the long line of Dark Wizards produced a little boy that was sensitive(who runs away and cries when he's scared), and curious(jumps in to Borgin and Burkes as a child and can't wait to look at and touch everything), and nurturing(look at the way he tried cradling and tickling that baby mandrake in Chamber of Secrets)? What happens when their long illustrious line of powerful wizards produces one that's fun-loving and creative? All of that shit gets beaten out of him, is what. That's what, I think, is at the heart of Draco's psychology.

And we'll see how that plays out.

Thanks so much to my faithful reviewers Pancakestack, HeartofAspen, SabrinaJasmine, and more! (I frankly don't care if any of you think Ella's a Mary Sue. By definition, Mary Sues are pleasantly perfect and automatically fix everything they touch, and Ella pretty horrifically screws everything she touches up. Trust me, you'll see.) You guys are the reason to push forward. I owe it to all of you to finish this story. MUCH LOVE!


	24. Chapter 24

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

 **A/N:** There's a big ole lemon in this chapter and it's gonna get gross. You've been warned.

* * *

 **Draco 20**

* * *

Up the narrow staircase, which was clearly new, was a corridor that boasted a measly four doors. This house was likely something that used to belong to some Muggle industrial workers. He knew that Professor Snape was a halfblood, but he wondered what witch would find herself in this place willingly. Cokeworth was so distinctly unmagical in his eyes; perhaps it was perfect for Ella in that sense? It was the perfect place to hide.

Ella opened the first door to a bare, well-lit room, all lined with mirrors and a springy white pine floor, and a barre on the other side. There was a piano and a large-ish plastic monstrosity that stood next to it, as well as a shelf of all of Ella's dancing shoes; dyed ballet toe shoes, jazz clogs, tap shoes in different shades. It seemed to be magically expanded, for it was far larger than it had any business being in such a tiny house. The walls didn't have any art or photos on the wall, which he found odd, yet somehow understandable.

"No windows in here," she commented, taking her hair out of the scarf, and letting it fall in thick curls over her shoulders. Perhaps it was his accursed nose, but he couldn't help but take in a deep breath of the smell of her hair. "You should be okay." He leaned in the doorway. "Tests on the tablets have been promising," she said. "Isolation from moonlight seems to, at least, help."

Draco felt a bit bleak. "I'll still change," he said. "It doesn't matter where I am."

"Are you still making your own potions?" she asked, a familiar spark in her eye. Draco nodded silently. "I've changed things," she stated. "Medical advancements have made great strides since 1976." Draco blinked. "That's when the Wolfsbane potion was invented."Ella smiled. "And in the December of 1999, Ella Zamora turned it into a tablet, which is just as effective with _no_ nasty taste, after only a short two years of being a professional potioneer! Now that I've gotten leave from the Ministry to pursue my research further, I've been able to open a whole new department at the hospital for lycanthropy!" She was clearly quite excited about this. There had been quite a high spike in lycanthropy since the Battle of Hogwarts, all thanks to Fenrir Greyback, whose fate was unknown to him. "I really did learn a lot in Brazil," she commented. "Do you wanna talk about this?"

He didn't want to talk about his... _condition_ , but he wasn't sure of what he _actually_ wanted to talk about instead. He nodded towards the piano. "Does that rickety old thing play?"

Ella laughed. "Sure does! Wanna give it a go?"Draco smiled. She seemed excited; she always loved it when he played. He went and sat at the bench and popped his knuckles. She had quite a bit of sheet music piled up on top, and the sheet music on the stand was jarring. Ella tensed over his shoulder. "Sorry. I really like Billy Joel."

"Were you dancing to it?" he asked, his eyes locked on the notes.

Ella sat next to him, the way she used to. "I was trying to learn it." They locked eyes. "I...missed hearing piano." Draco looked away quickly and piled all the music to the top of the piano. He remembered the first time he played jazz music, finding a song called "New York State of Mind" and playing it, listening to Ella sing for the first time, her voice so new and mighty. He'd heard the choir singing, opera singers...Ella was the first person he'd ever heard sing the way she did, belting out loud and strong, her lungs seeming to be a force of nature. It was almost like shouting, but it was so moving, thrilling. He began to play, trickling the keys here and there, just to see if the piano was in tune. He pressed the high E key gently, then F, staying in natural key. Ella was at his right; when he glanced at her, she smiled. "Play what you feel," she said, almost offhandedly. She was trying so hard to be casual.

Draco took in a deep breath. He was feeling quite a bit at that moment. He switched down to a minor key, and began pressing out an almost mournful tune that he remembered from his childhood. After a few bars, he hit the high F key again, and it triggered a memory. His eyes went a little out of focus, watching the black and white slowly dance beneath his long fingers.

 _Eeeeee_ sang the piano. _Eeee, Beeeeeeeee, G E Beeeeeee, G E Beeee-twooo-threeee..._

"Draco?" her voice cracked.

 _Eee BEEEEeeee, G E Beeeeee, G E G-two- F E..._ His left hand came next to the right to play the harmonies, then down to the bass line to play the rest. For the first time in a long time, he played one of his own pieces, which he wasn't even sure was his own. His music was likely some mediocre copy of something he'd heard of a greater wizard, once, mismatched and scrambled around to create something that sounded like something worth hearing. He probably copied this song from something he'd overheard on the street. This song probably wasn't his.

He remembered a time when writing songs meant something to him, a fleeting moment when he thought they might mean something to someone else. He was seven, or so, he guessed; he'd written a song and played it for his parents. His mother applauded vigorously; his father said or did nothing. When he was eight, his mother still listened intently to anything he played, but his father was far too preoccupied for such, and began to treat his music with some form of annoyance. When he was nine, Father bought him a broomstick and told him to get out of the damn library, get out of the damn music room, and go outside. We've nearly a hundred acres, he'd said. A hundred acres of pristine countryside that oughtn't be wasted on such a little shut-in like him. Get outside and start flying. Little boys don't sing, Draco. Little boys don't waste days in the library. Little boys don't play the piano this much, it's just not natural. Get the hell outside. You're going to start flying. You'll be the best, you'll see. You'll be the Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team when you go to Hogwarts. It'll be a crime if you're not selected for Seeker of your House.

His fingers flew quietly and loudly over the keys, stopping at where he'd stopped writing, some four years ago, at the bar of the song he'd left unfinished. To his shock and surprise, tears were streaming down Ella's freckled cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I—" He was unsure of what to say. She stood up quickly and began to pace silently, like a tigress in a cage. She then stormed to the piano and rooted through the sheet music to pull out a rather dog-eared parchment scroll of hand-written sheet music. "Ella I'm sorry—"

"—Do you recognize this?"she demanded, holding the parchment up for him to see. Draco stood up in shock, his heart in his throat, his stomach flipping over three different ways. "You see this? This was written by someone that cares about the future. The person that wrote this music is a person who has _hope_." Tears welled in her almond-shaped eyes. "This person wrote about the trees he'd someday be tall enough to climb. The way he'd stay up all night because nobody could tell him 'no.' The way he'd be brave enough to fight the monsters under his bed when he was grown up." She gulped back a sob. "Where did _he_ go?" Draco tried to snatch away the sheet music, which she quickly pulled away. "What do you think that seven-year-old you would think of twenty-year-old you?"

"And what do you suppose the seven-year-old you would think of twenty-one-year-old you living in squalor—?!"

"—'Squalor'?!"

 _Fuck._ It was a great mistake to insult her home, which Professor Snape had left her, and Draco immediately regretted it. "I just—! I meant—!" He took in a breath. "You should be living in a palace on a hill, away from these Muggles—'

"—Seriously fuck you. I mean fuck you with a big bleedy dick." Draco blinked, taken quite aback with that rather creative insult.

"Why are you so insistent on living here?" he asked, genuinely. "Honestly, why?"

"Because Staffordshire is _beautiful_. It has been voted to be one of the best places to live in the UK! And honestly why does it matter to you where I live? I can apparate goddamn _anywhere_ so I can _live_ goddamn anywhere. For real, why the Christ does this matter to you so much?! How does it affect you where I live?! Huh?!" Her tears were gone, now, burned off by her anger. He realized several stanzas in to this conversation that he was being unreasonable, but this lovely time of the month _made_ him rather unreasonable.

"It shouldn't," he quietly admitted.

"You're damn right it shouldn't!" she shouted, her chest heaving a bit. Dammit, why does she have to look so cute when she's mad?

"I'm sorry," he said softly, a pleasantly familiar tightness growing in his stomach.

"Yes. Well." She snorted a bit through her nose. She licked her lips.

"Have you really had that music after all this time?"

She took a step back, her chest caving in a bit, her lips pouted and cheeks flushed a pleasingly perturbed bright red. Her throat seemed to tighten. A memory of her looking at him in that way stirred in his mind. She looked…hurt. He remembered: it was the day in the Hospital wing, the day he was slashed to bits by _Sectumsempra_ , the day he called her a 'Mudblood.'

"Why?" he breathed.

"I don't know—" she said, all too quickly. "I—" Ella gulped. "I don't…" She closed her eyes and turned her face away. "I missed…" she whispered, too low for anyone to hear, except for him with his halfbreed ears. "I missed—" She stopped herself and Draco stood. Her eyes opened to look at him walking towards her. "Draco—" He grabbed her face and his mouth covered hers; she didn't stop him, not at all.

Her arms wrapped around his waist, her nails dug in to his back through his suit jacket. A sort of strange tightness filled his chest, and he found himself walking straight back until she was pressed up against the wall. His hands lowered to her breasts, soft and firm and full as grapefruits, and squeezed shyly. Ella grabbed him by the lapels and slammed his back against the wall, pressing her body firmly against his, causing him to cry out.

"Ella—!"

"—Shut up." She covered his mouth with hers, he couldn't help but moan at her warm, probing tongue. She didn't care when his hands wandered all along her waist, down around her back, lower still to squeeze the curve of her ass. Her hands came around his waist and pulled him towards her as she backed up, faster and faster, out of the studio and down the hall, Draco's fingers fumbling to find the zipper on the back of her dress through her long hair. He heard the click of the doorknob turning, and all at once they were in her bedroom.

She pulled him hard towards the bed. His hands came out and gripped the tall posters, almost afraid to fall. Her swift hands came and pulled his tie away from his throat and quickly unbuttoned his shirt. There were years' worth of fevered dreams of her doing just this, almost exactly the way he imagined it to be. Her ragged breathing, the way she hungrily unbuckled his belt, the soft rumple of his trousers falling to the floor, the scratch of her fingernails on his cheek when she came up for another kiss. His hands fell away from the posters on the bed and pushed her back, hard, so she would fall on the bed.

"Draco…" she whimpered as his hands reached beneath the skirt of her dress, feeling the lace on her panties. His fingertips found the waistband and hesitated; she sat up on her elbows and said "Please don't stop."

"Oh Ella—" He tumbled forward and his mouth covered hers when she sat up to meet him. Her hands pushed his jacket and shirt off his shoulders. A sharp rush of pleasure came over his body as her palms brushed his bare ribs when she pulled his undershirt up over his head. Draco cried out when her hand reached further down inside his underwear and gripped pleasingly hard. He felt her lips smiling when she came in for another kiss; his hips gently rocked as her hand stroked him up and down, his whole body shaking, his knees digging hard in to the mattress as he straddled her.

His hands wandered up to cup her full breasts, grunting low as he pulled the seams of her dress off her back, Ella giving a tiny squeal of delight as he did. He could smell her sex, her blood pumping in her veins, her hot breath mixing with his. His heightened senses tingled, painting a picture of what was before him as he kissed her, eyes closed. Draco pulled her dress off her shoulders and down to her waist and pulled away to see a lacy black brassiere cupping her heaving breasts. Hungrily he buried his face between them and kissed and licked his way down, the sound of her flopping back on the bed causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He pushed her hands above her head, then let his own hands wander down the curves of her waist. She wasn't stopping him; she was encouraging him, and all of it felt so right.

There was absolutely nothing in that Parisian book that could have described any of this in its truest form. What could? How could one describe being with the woman that you love in this way, her back arched, her heels digging in to the mattress? How could you describe that sexy, earthy smell and how it made you feel? The way his fingertips on her thighs raised tiny goosebumps felt as if he was a God creating the earth's mountains. The sound of her panties slipping down off her hips and over her knees was almost like an ocean breeze after a storm. Only a gale force wind could come close to the way she gasped then cried out when his mouth descended upon the treasure between her rounded thighs, all open and hairy and wet. It was as if an appetite he hadn't known of had been within him for years, and now that he had a taste of it, he never wanted to stop eating.

"Draco—! Oh—! Oh my— _Ooh_!" He couldn't help but smile at the way she was panting, the way her hips were bucking against his tongue. It was so addictive; everything about this moment was perfect and there was nothing in the world that was ever going to tell him that loving her was wrong. _This_ was right. _This_ was his home. _This_ is what he wanted, always.

Ella's hands gripped his atop her hips, then scraped up his arms, lacing through his hair, every sound and sigh from her lungs a delight to the senses. This was the first time in months that his mind was completely clear. There was no trial, no full moon, no funeral, no wedding to a woman that knew he'd never love her. There was only them, together, sharing in each other, losing each other in themselves. She tensed and moaned low, guttural, deep in her throat and climbing high like a whining howl, and he felt her throbbing around his tongue, squirting all over his face and in his mouth. He couldn't help but hungrily grin and laugh; she seemed relieved, yet horrifically embarrassed.

"I-I—!" She panted. "I'm sorry—that's never—!"

"—No I loved it!" he insisted, climbing up on all fours to mount her. All at once she flipped him on his back; he wasn't sure if she was strong or if he was weak. The satin on her comforter felt cool against his bare back, like the shady part of the sand on the beach in spring. He watched as she peeled his shoes, socks, trousers and underwear away, his heart racing faster and faster. He wanted to tell her everything, that she was a goddess, that she was powerful as the dawn. A cool draft from the house washed over his body as her thighs spread over his hips; he placed his hands on her waist and felt the change between eyelet fabric and her flesh with his fingers. Ella locked eyes with him and bit her lip with a grin, and he felt all of her walls come tumbling down, everything about her barriers stripped away, everything that ever kept him out of her was demolished, and inviting him in. He sat up and took her face in his hands, his fingers curling through her thick hair.

"Draco—?"

"—I love you, Ella Xanthippe Zamora."

"I—!"

"—And I will never stop loving you. I know you may never feel the same way for me, but I cannot bear another moment without telling you exactly how I feel." Her face didn't change to an expression of disdain or disgust or even anger; to Draco's shock, she smiled, _really_ smiled, open-mouthed with white teeth. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Please let me inside you," he begged. She laughed and pressed her lips hard against his, her arms snaking quickly around his neck in a tight embrace.

"Please _be_ inside me," she whispered against his mouth. His hands gripped her hips, hard.

She gasped sharply; his breath froze in his lungs as his hips flexed upwards and simultaneously pulled hers down. Ella let out a high-pitched sigh from her throat, her nails digging in to his bare shoulders. He felt her twitch around him, hot and warm and wet and silky, like being buried, enveloped.

"Holy shit," he breathed, unable to move. Ella smiled and flexed her hips, causing him to stifle a moan. He felt her slide up and down, slowly, torturously dripping wet. His arms came around her waist and gripped her tight to him, burying his face in the curves of her breasts, kissing all over, his hands soon wandering to feel beneath her bra. Her breasts were so soft and full, exactly the way breasts _should_ be, so round with perfect little nipples that felt hard under his fingers. Draco moved and flipped her on her back, sighing as her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and gently thrusted, earning a guttural moan.

Everything went away. His lycanthropy, his guilt, all inhibitions he may have had. All the voices in his head went quiet, in that beautiful moment, where he felt happy. It felt amazing; the way her fingers curled through his hair, her hot breath on his ear, the soles of her naked feet on his calves. It was everything that he could have thought of, and the only thing he was thinking of was trying desperately not to bite or scratch her on accident.

Ella was always loud and bossy and opinionated. He'd never heard her without words, nor imagined her to be so high and breathy when she couldn't find them. Draco was always somehow impressed with her extensive vocabulary, although she had the thickest American accent to ever exist. He always wondered what she'd sound like had she a British accent; the only words she said tonight were: ' _Good…slower…from behind…don't stop…come closer…like this…oh yes…_ ' all said softly, all gasping all mixed in variation with gentle and violent moaning. He didn't say anything; he didn't want to risk not hearing what she wanted, nor did he want to risk ending it too soon.

"Draco…!" Her nails dug in to his chest as her hips bucked violently, her hair shook all down her face and shoulders. _Oh my God she's actually about to have an orgasm_ — _?!_ He thought as he watched her ride him. Her brow furrowed and her whole body tensed. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened in a silent scream, and he felt her pulsing around him, _hard_. She threw her head back and moaned loud, deep, howling and gasping for air. All at once, she went soft and began shaking, then he saw her smiling and giggling, which then turned to a gasping laughter. He sat up and was met with a kiss.

"Are you okay?" he asked, cupping her face with both hands.

"Oh my God, yes, I'm _so_ okay," she giggled, kissing between each word. Draco smiled. Her breathing slowed as she kissed him again, deeper, then moved to his cheek and nibbled gently on his ear. A shiver went up his spine, and then he felt a sort of _crack_ in his shoulders, then in his jaw. He opened his eyes and tensed, seeing the light of the full moon streaming through Ella's bedroom window through the thin part in the curtains.

 _No!_ was the last coherent thought he had, as all sound shifted away in to white noise, and the horrific feeling of nails digging and ripping away at his skin, his own bones growing and pulling, snapping away and back in to place hit him hard. All of the pleasure went away as he felt Ella jumping off the bed, her raven feathers flapping out of the corner of his eye towards the night stand. His feet swelled and the sharp cutting of his nails turning to claws made it feel like he was going to bleed, but he never did. His eyes went closed shut and wide open again, and he thrashed on the bed, screaming, howling, until he stopped, and his sore muscles and tender skin had turned to white fur.

" _Draco_?"

He heard a voice, distorted and overblown with his wolf-like hearing. He turned his head, the flesh on his neck still quite tender, to see Ella's figure, standing at the foot of the bed. He could smell her sex, her fear. The fact that he was even aware of where he was in that moment was a huge positive, and it was perhaps this fact that kept him from spiraling into a depression. Ella pulled her dress up from her hips and back over her shoulders.

"A _r_ e yo _u_ _ok_ aY?" Werewolves had freakishly exceptional hearing, which made close-proximity conversations impossible, for everything was so distorted and sensitive, he could barely process a word. With his wolf eyes, he saw her reach out her hand. Humiliated, he pulled away. He heard her sigh.

"Errroooooraaraaaaa," he tried. His mouth was too full of frightening, vicious teeth to form a sentence. He didn't have lips anymore, so he couldn't speak to her. He couldn't tell her how sorry he was. He couldn't even say her name. He reached for her, and to his shock and surprise, she grasped his…claw…as if it was his hand. She sat on the bed next to him. He felt quite drowsy, his muscles suddenly relaxing. Her tablets were working, keeping him sedated and lucid.

"Uhm…" She cleared her throat. "You can sleep in here tonight," she resolved. "I'll sleep in the guest bedroom. Or maybe downstairs in the library." Draco felt heartbroken. _Curse this disease,_ he thought bitterly _. Curse Fenrir Greyback. Curse you, Father, for putting this upon me. I hope it's cold where you lie._ "Draco, don't cry—" He felt her hand on his…face. He hadn't realized that a tear had been shed. He put his clawed hand to hers, and she didn't back away. "Please don't cry," she said. "It's okay. It's my fault for moving us in here." She then straightened her dress and cleared her throat again. Draco's vision blurred. "Do you want a book from the library? I've got all sorts. Or, um, maybe you can read this one. It's my favorite."

Draco looked to the book she had picked up from the nightstand. It was a very well-worn paperback book with yellowed pages and a cover torn half-off. Considering the state of the book, as well as the fact that it was in the possession of Ella Zamora, it had been read over about a million times. She had a habit with her books that Draco always found queer: abusing them.

Ella would write in her textbooks, much to the chagrin of Professor McGonagall, as well as every other book she bought. She'd scribble and doodle in the corners of pages, and stuff her books tight in any sort of way she could think to fit it. She was outdoorsy and liked to take her books camping, from what he understood, so many of her books had leaves pressed in between the pages, and many of the book's spines were dusty from caked on mud where they'd fallen from her pocket. He'd even seen Ella fall asleep using one of her books as a pillow late one night in the Slytherin common room, with another tucked beneath her arm, the pages all awry and bent out of shape from the position she had been sleeping in. It was obvious that this book was her most-cherished of all, for the shape it was in. He reached out for it, but he saw his own…paws…and withdrew. He didn't want to ruin her favorite book.

"Oh." She seemed to understand, but opened the book anyway. "Well, here. Listen." She turned on the lantern at the bedside, and the room filled with a glowing light. "This is a great book," she insisted. "It's about this adorable little firstblood witch that is born into a horrible, _awful_ NoMaj family, but is—you'll see. Listen to this:" she cleared her throat "'So Matilda's strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.'" She sighed happily and looked up at him. "Isn't that wonderful?" Were those tears in her eyes?

He wanted to reach out, but dared not. He sat on the bed, silently, and felt the wolfsbane begin to kick in. He nodded just then, quite a bit against his will. Frankly, though, he wasn't sure if he was able to sort out what he wanted in that state, anyhow. Wolfsbane wasn't a cure, but just turned you in to a very sleepy werewolf that was calm and sedated. The next thing he knew, he was lying on her bed, naked, listening to the songbirds outside the window chirping to hail in the morning. A train's whistle went off in the distance.

Draco shot up in shock, looking around. His clothes were folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and his shoes were polished to a fine mirror shine. He glanced around in a panic at the room he'd fallen asleep in, Ella's bedroom. He was laying beneath a warm French gray comforter, with sheer green curtains hanging over her four-poster bed. There was a vanity, and a door which led to the master bathroom, he guessed, and another which led to her closet. Glancing to his left, he saw the curtains were drawn back and a cool breeze was coming in to air out the room. He felt a bit nervous, but then recalled that she likely had security measures unlike any other, so he figured he was safe. Draco flopped backwards, his head hitting the pillow, the full realization of what he'd done last night hitting him like a sack of potatoes.

 _Oh God. Astoria_.

This was it. This was the nail in the coffin. The night his father was murdered was the same night he'd told her how sorry he was that he had to leave. He lay there, in Ella's bed, naked, recalling every detail, letting it replay in his mind. She was sitting in the drawing room, a picture of purity, alabaster skin and flowing dark brown hair. She'd known that it was over; she _must_ have. The way she clasped her gloves when he came to greet her said it all. They were both thinking it, all since the Zabini's party two nights before.

It had been months since Draco had seen Ella in Paris. He supposed that he should have expected to see her there; Blaise _was_ a dear friend of them both. They were celebrating Blaise making Chaser in the Tutshill Tornadoes to start in the coming season next autumn. He'd been bumped from the reserves and got to play his first big game, which Draco attended with Astoria. Blaise even offered to put in a good word for being Seeker next season, suggesting that Draco come and try out. He'd politely declined, of course; Quidditch was still a child's game, wasn't it? Now that his father was gone, he _must_ maintain his work at the Ministry, mustn't he?

He recalled entering Villa Zabini, that charming retreat near the Forest of Dean, with Astora on his arm. She truly was lovely, a simply adoring creature with a good sense of humor, every bit of wifely graces one might desire. They'd made their rounds, saying hello to everyone, and Astoria excused herself to the powder room, when a dark man with thick eyebrows and thick, puffy bags under his eyes came and shook his hand. He remembered his thick shoulders, his thick bowtie, his impeccably manicured fingernails. He remembered his cheeks, how big and white and square his teeth were, how big his ears were.

 _"Draco Malfoy, at last we meet_." He shook his hand firmly. His voice was deep, a little raspy, an odd sort of...nasal whine to it that sounded familiar. _"River Zamora III. I believe you asked my daughter to marry you, once upon a time_."

 _"Ah, sir_ —"

" _No, no, it's fine," he said, smiling, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing in an almost menacing way. "I understand. She's an extraordinary girl. Everybody in New York asks about her all the time."_

Draco recalled how afraid he'd felt. "Yes, _sir, your daughter is a brilliant and powerful witch."_ He'd collected his composure as best he could, brought them drinks and apologized graciously for everything. Mister Zamora said nothing to hint the fact that he knew the full details of what had happened between them those years ago. Draco was half-tempted to send him an apology gift of some galleons, but then realized that an American wizard might feel rather insulted at the possibility of being 'bought off.' They talked for a bit about America, about being a lawyer, about the MACUSA...

" _I hear that a congratulations are in order, however, for your current engagement,_ " he'd then said. Draco sipped his whiskey.

" _Thank you, sir,"_ he had said, then caught glance at Ella through the bottom of his glass, who was exchanging some words with his father. He knew that smug look on her face, that fire in her eye, that aura around her that indicated that she was a damn force of nature. Her long hair was down to the middle of her back, falling over her black tee shirt, gold bangles on her wrist jingling.

" _You and I are alike, Mister Malfoy. We fall in love hard and fast, damn the consequences..._ " He was listening, but he was staring at Ella, who was smiling sweetly up at his father, so unafraid. " _If I could give you some marital advice_ —"

 _"_ — _Certainly_ , _sir_ ," said Draco, unaware that his voice had cracked, almost unaware that he was staring so plainly at the woman he truly loved, who was eternally unafraid of anything, damn the consequences.

" _Find that witch that makes you want to be a_ wizard _...and then_ be _that wizard for her_." He remembered those words quite clearly. He remembered turning to him, frowning, and asking what that meant. He remembered the way he sipped champagne, the same delicate way that Ella did, which he found almost...odd. _"Being a husband and a father is the greatest thing in my life I've ever done,"_ he then said. " _Do you think you'll be able to say the same_?"

Ella had come just then, sweeping in on beating wings, smiling sweetly and escorting him away. _"Daddy I'd like to introduce you to the Minister of Magic_ ," she'd said. It was a ploy invisible to anyone but him; Ella was saving him. Again. Silently, Draco rose from the bed. He'd told Astoria about all of it that night. He'd told her that he wanted out. He'd said sorry. He'd told her that he was leaving for America, to start life anew. The rage in his father's voice was unparamounted.

It was because of that American strumpet, wasn't it, Draco? You want to be with her, instead? Mudblood babies, Draco, is that what you want? Mudblood babies? You really are a disgrace. You'll have nothing. You won't have a single knut to your name, you ungrateful little worm. Somehow it didn't matter. None of his father's words hurt anymore. Nothing hurt. Everything was numb and his mind was made up to leave. Then, the morning of his journey, he'd been apprehended at Gringott's. Draco had been convinced that his father had been so damn petty to keep him from having _any_ money at all, but when the Aurors told him...

He swallowed his anger, buried his sorrow in his clothes as he dressed. He thought of taking a shower, but it was likely better that he just leave. Glancing in the vanity mirror, he straightened his hair. He didn't look like he normally did after a transformation; medicinal potioneering had certainly made strides. He wondered what it might take to get a supply of Ella's wolfsbane tablets, but he quickly reminded himself that he'd made the pass on that law himself: you can come and have free wolfsbane tablets if you volunteer for the study in the new Lycanthropic Rehabilitation clinic in St. Mungo's. It was the kindest way of putting them all on any sort of list. Ella was happy to do it, to help in any way she could, to save all that she could.

Draco came down the stairs and smelled rich black coffee, buttery toast and bacon. His stomach growled; he'd get food later.

"Draco, good morning." He looked down the corridor and straight in the kitchen, where Ella was standing at the stove, in a purple japanese silk robe, embroidered with gold dragons, over a silk nightgown. She smiled nervously. He came to the kitchen, where she was stirring eggs to scramble in a skillet, flecked with green, chopped chives.

"Ella," he greeted, suddenly feeling choked by the room's atmosphere. "I, um—"

"—You want some eggs?" she asked quickly.

She was nervously shifting. Her voice always got a little higher than normal when she was ill-at-ease, and she always spoke too quickly to understand when she was especially afraid of something. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Listen, I—" He tried to think of the best way to put it. "—I'm grateful. I don't... _want_ anything from you—"

"—I know," she quickly insisted, nodding her head. "I, um—" She cleared her throat, picking up the skillet, which was full of golden curds, rising with steam. "—It's just eggs. I mean—I _made_ eggs. I made eggs—uh—for _me_ — but you can have some, too. I mean. If you want them. Like—I didn't _make_ them for you, I made them for me. But I always make lots of eggs. And..." She gulped. "You can have some eggs." A beat. "It's just eggs." She smiled again, almost dismissively, trying desperately to be casual.

Draco's chest felt tight. "I don't want you to feel as if you owe—"

"—Draco, it's just eggs. Do you want them or not?"

He glanced at the table, which was already set for two. His heart felt as if it might crack under pressure, so he let out a sigh in an effort to quell his racing pulse. "Well, so long as it's just eggs," he said. Ella smiled. "Because..." He gulped. "I really do want some eggs."

"Right?" giggled Ella nervously. "I mean, yeah. Eggs are... Eggs are great! Who doesn't like eggs?" She poured eggs on to his plate, next to two slices of bacon, and then on hers as well. She set the skillet in the sink and quickly sat, avoiding his eyes. "Help yourself to coffee," she said, busying herself with some toast and strawberry jam. Draco sat across from her and couldn't help but stare. He brought a forkful of eggs to his lips and bit; he sighed deeply through his nose. The eggs were soft pillows, gentle curds of buttery flavor, resting, near-dissolving, on his tongue. He closed his eyes.

"About last night—"

"—Nope!" He looked up to see she had dropped her fork on her ceramic plate and was waving her hands quite adamantly. "Nope. Absolutely not. Last night never happened. I have drawn a _veil_ over last night." Her words were like a kick in the guts. "You weren't even here last night. Understand?"

"Yes I was," he said, his eyes welling. "I _was_ here last night. And I was with you—"

"—You need to stop," she whispered, staring at her plate.

"No, Ella. I won't." She looked up at him, her eyes full. "I was here. Last night happened." She quickly looked back down and stuffed another small pile of eggs in her mouth, followed by an entire slice of bacon. A strange wave of resolve filled Draco's body as she began to chug from her coffee mug."I'm not ashamed that I was with you, even though you might be ashamed—"

"Oh COME ON—!" she shouted, slamming her now-empty mug down on the table. "Get your head out of your own ass! I'm not ashamed of you being a goddamn werewolf—"

"—Keep your voice down!"

"Are you telling me to keep my voice down in _my_ house?!" Draco pinched the space between his eyes. Ella shoved a second slice of bacon in her mouth, possibly in an attempt to keep herself quiet. "I'm not ashamed of that," she said, tucking the bacon into her cheek. "I don't care about that."

He watched her chew then swallow. He watched as she fixed herself some more coffee and sat down again. He didn't understand. "Then why—"

"—Because if you'll cheat _with_ me, then you'll cheat _on_ me!" she whispered in horror. "Okay? I'm ashamed to be the other woman. Happy?" Draco's face softened, his chest swelled and then collapsed. He reached across the table and touched her hand. Ella looked up, her eyebrows tilted in question. She bit her bottom lip.

"Ella Zamora," he said softly. "You could never be 'the other woman.'"

"But I am," she replied. "I'm the other woman." She closed her eyes and hung her head.

"You are _the_ woman," he said. "You're the woman that I want to be with."

"Then why are you with her?" she retorted from behind the curtain of her hair.

"I'm not." She shot her eyes up to meet his. "Listen, let me explain..." Ella blinked. "The day before my father was murdered, I told Astoria I wanted to break it off. I told her that I was sorry and that..." He gulped. "It wasn't fair of me to ask her to stay when I'm so obviously in love with someone else." He paused, waiting for her to react. "She took it well. She took it gracefully. I was leaving for America the next day when I found out—" His voice cracked. "Then I came back to the manor and she..." Draco sighed through his nose. "I couldn't very well say that—"

"—Look, Draco," she said. "I know that you want to be together, but...just..." She sighed. "Marry Astoria, okay? She's not _nearly_ as complicated or insane as I am. She can give you a life I never could!"

"'Life?' What 'life' could she give me—?"

"—A _normal_ one!" Ella insisted. "I mean—" Ella's voice cracked. "Don't you want that? Don't you want a nice happily ever after?" A beat. "Don't you want a non-crazy witch as a wife?"

He burst out laughing, first softly through his nose, and then loudly through his lungs. "In the time that we've known each other, what _ever_ gave you the impression that I was turned off by 'crazy'?" Ella laughed then, suddenly and heartily.

"Okay, you've got me there." He squeezed her hand. She smiled at him sadly. "It's just..." She sighed through her nose. "It's a bad time for me, Draco—"

"—Then when will it be a good time?" he asked. Ella stared, incredulous. "When is a good time for us? When can we try again?"

"How the hell should I know?" she demanded.

"If you don't know when a _good_ time is, how can you know when a bad time is?" She tried to pull her hand away, but Draco wouldn't let her. "I'm calling off the wedding." Her eyes went wide as saucers. "Today."

* * *

GAWD I'm an asshole for leaving it off there.

HUGE thanks to HeartofAspen, Pancakestack, SabrinaJasmine, and all the rest for reading and reviewing. More to come soon!


	25. Chapter 25

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Harry 16**

* * *

The wind was cutting into Harry's cheek as climbed to the owlry. It was a particularly blustery winter day and he worried about Hedwig flying in this weather, but he also had a great amount of faith in her, for she never failed him before. The significance of this owl was great, and Harry was certain that Mr. Weasley would be able to help identify that weird-looking cabinet Malfoy had been so interested in at Borgin and Burkes. He tied his scarf tighter around his face, his glasses fogging a bit from the heat of his breath rising, and stumbled in.

He removed his glasses when he knew he was in the safety of the owlry and cleaned the lenses with the hem of his jumper. When he put them back on, he found Ella Zamora sitting on the ledge of one of the stone windows, Hedwig at her side, along with her own owl, which was the largest brown owl he'd ever seen. She was sitting and reading, with a few parcels and envelopes at her feet, which were wrapped in impractical heels of cranberry red suede. It was Wednesday, which meant that there were no classes for N.E.W.T. students, so she was wearing—he assumed—her Ilvermorny robes, which seemed similar to Hogwarts school robes, except they were a fine prussian blue with gold buttons and bright cranberry scarf over her shoulders. He was about to turn around and leave, but she noticed him before he could.

"Hello, Harry," she greeted, neutral, going back to reading her letters. Hedwig fluffed up her feathers in greeting and flew to his arm. "She's been going on and on about you," she mentioned, scribbling something on a scroll of parchment at her side with a white peacock feather quill. Her owl shook its great head and cleaned his feathers. "She and Phoebus seem to be good friends."

"Is that your owl's name?"

"Mm-hmm," she said. She then looked up and nodded pointedly to the large horned owl. "He chose it. He said he didn't have a name when he came to me and had a number instead. M20. Weird." She shrugged. "Ah, well, I guess big-name Owl Breeders do that. Right, beastie?" She smiled at scratched his belly. Harry couldn't help but smile. "Did you like your hot chocolate?" He recalled the other day, at the contest.

"Oh, er, yeah."

"Good," she said with a grin. "Sorry about the Dueling Club. I've told them to remain professional from now on." She opened a large parcel and pulled out what Harry recognized as her ukelele. She grinned. "Yes!" she whispered, then looked up with a grin. "Had it fixed," she explained. "And had my name carved on the neck." She strummed the strings, filling the owlry with the lofty chords.

"Oh." He felt a little tense, recalling last weekend. She strummed again, then hummed in harmony with the chord, then sang a few 'la la la's before strumming out a bit of a song, which sounded familiar, but Harry couldn't place it.

"You play any instruments?"

Harry felt extremely uncomfortable. He pulled out the letter and a treat for Hedwig. He fed her from his palm, trying to keep his sealed envelope concealed in the sleeve of his robe.

Ella gave a tiny laugh. "Yeah, I guess you wouldn't have had any lessons... My mother wanted me to play the harp, you know. Daddy wanted piano, since we already had one at my Nana's house..." She trailed off. "But we all settled on the ukelele." She strummed a few more tones. Harry figured if he remained quiet and just let her talk, he could get in and out without too much of a conflict. "Actually! I had initially wanted to play the bagpipes, but then we all _settled_ on the ukelele." She strummed again, humming.

 _Bagpipes_? Thought Harry. "Why bagpipes?" He oughtn't to have engaged, but who in their right mind would want to play bagpipes? Phoebus and Hedwig seemed to be having a rather lively conversation as well, for the way they were chirping and hooting. Zamora patted his head gently, and nodded along.

"Well, frankly, I didn't want to be stuck inside learning music when I could be _outside_ playing, so I decided to choose the most annoying thing I could think of."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. He looked over his shoulder. "Didn't they try to insist either way?"

"Of course!" laughed she, pulling out a cranberry ribbon from the box the ukelele was in and looping it around her gold charm bracelet, she tied the instrument's neck, too. With a tap of her wand and a flick of her wrist, the ukelele shrank to be a tiny gold charm that dangled like a little bell. "But my dad's a lawyer so I grew up learning how to argue." She looked up at him. "But when that didn't work I yelled and screamed and threw a big tantrum until I got my way." She smirked. Harry cringed in disdain, reminded of Dudley's tantrums in that moment. "Plus, a ukelele is small, so you can take it anywhere with ease." She shook her charm bracelet at him, the glimmering gold catching the pale light on that December day. "And the Ilvermorny school song was originally written with a part on the ukelele! And I can play little songs; "Over the Rainbow" and "Can't Help Falling in Love" when I feel like it. It's pretty easy to play. I just like singing better is all." Phoebus chirped and hooted, and Hedwig hooted back in answer. Zamora laughed a bit. "They sure do like each other. I'm glad that Phoebus makes friends so easily. I was worried about him, coming all the way here..."

Harry frowned and looked at Phoebus, big and brown and gray and speckled, with horn-like feathers atop his head. "Where did you get him?" he asked, petting Hedwig's head.

"Draco," she answered. "'He came all the way from America just to be with me,'" she recited, her voice a bit lofty. Harry guessed that she perhaps felt it was a bit odd to have a pet owl, considering she could turn into a raven at will. "He had him shipped over from Maine for Christmas last year so we could keep in touch. He's a Coastal Great Horned Owl, one of the largest birds of prey in America. I guess Draco felt I needed something American." She then looked up at him. "All the owls in school say you two have been at each other's throats since day one." Harry tensed. "I guess it explains why he was so keen to make those Team Zamora buttons for me. I mean, I know he cares, but nobody cares _that_ much." He almost mentioned that Malfoy had been the one to make and sell the 'Potter Stinks' buttons when he was competing in the Tri-Wizard tournament two years ago. "By the way," she said, "Hedwig also told me why you're cheating at Potions." His mouth went dry. "I won't tell. I do think you've got the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair. But I won't tell, even though I'm a Prefect now and legally obligated to..."

"What do you mean, you won't tell? There's nothing to tell," he insisted, his fist clenching.

"Oh?" she snapped. "You mean there's nothing to tell about you cheating by using the genius of those before you in order to get ahead? There's no unfair advantage at all?" The skin on his back felt tight, and his face felt rather hot. "Look, I just said that I wouldn't tell. And I won't be torturing you personally anymore. We're cool." She looked back to her letters and parcels. "But you're still cheating and making Slughorn think you're a genius—when you're _not_ —so I won't be telling everyone to leave you alone. They're free to torment you all they like, as far as I'm concerned."

"Oh. Thanks," snapped Harry. "You're really making a genuine effort to make peace, aren't you?" It was hard enough balancing homework and Quidditch with taking private lessons with Dumbledore, now he was the victim of a constant onslaught of pranks from the entirety of Slytherin house.

"They like me and they hate you," she simply stated, with the confidence of a serial killer. "It's not hard to convince them to make your life hell." She looked back at him. "You've got nobody but yourself to blame, by the way. What are you doing picking a fight with me on _my_ turf, huh? You've got Quidditch and I've got Potions. You don't see me trying to outdo you for Seeker, do you?"

"No, you've left your boyfriend to do that for you—"

"—Well, you know, there are three things in life that he truly seems to love: Quidditch, me, and making you miserable. And who do I think I am to rob him of that?"

"Oh you're so generous," he spat.

"Just shaddup and listen to me, will ya?" Her New York accent came out a bit just then. "I know you're cheating and I know why." Harry tensed. "I know you need to get Slughorn to like and trust you. I also know that you Gryffindor types tend to not care about anything else so long as the ends justify the means—"

"—That's a lie!" he shouted, his cheeks feeling as if they were on fire.

"Is it? Is there literally _no_ other option aside from cheating?" A beat. "You know you're letting him believe that you're way better than you actually are because it's going to make you seem more appealing to him. And you know that I'll eventually beat you because I actually _am_ good at potions. And you're a jerk for doing it, probably moreso because you've convinced yourself that you're right, completely lacking of _any_ reasonable amount of self-doubt."

"Yeah—? Well—?!" His face felt very hot and red, and his mind was full of thundering booms of anger. He was quickly sobered when he saw the silver gleaming prefect pin on her cranberry red tie. He then recalled what it meant to get on her bad side, considering her impressive dueling and transfiguration skills. He wasn't going to be the one to back down if she drew her wand first, but he knew that she was too smart to do that. She was too calm, and it was too scary.

Zamora snorted through her nose, then puffed her bangs off her forehead in annoyance. "I know you want to be in the Order." He was quickly snapped back to reality at her words. "If you can swear that you'll keep this between us—which means _no_ telling Ron and Hermione—I'll tell you..." Harry then quickly nodded, his heart skipping a beat a bit. Was Hermione right all along about her being a spy from America? Did the Order of the Phoenix stretch across to America? "Seriously. Swear? I'll know if you lie." She gestured to the many owls that were perched, half-asleep, in the owlry's rafters. "I've got no less than fifty feathery witnesses."

"I swear," he said.

"Good. Because I'm in the Order, too." It shouldn't have sounded so much like crashing glass, but to finally hear it, from her own mouth, was shocking to say the least.

"So you _are_ a spy!" gasped Harry. "You're a spy for MACUSA!"

"I didn't say that," she shot. "I said I was in the Order. I'm studying under Professor Snape."

"From America?" She gave him a very tired look. "So you want to help, then!" he said. "So you know what we're up against!"

"Everyone knows what you're up against," she stated cooly.

"But then why are you hanging round with someone like Malfoy if you're on our side?"

"How do you know _he's_ not on our side?"

"How—! What?" _Of all the ridiculous_ — "He couldn't possibly—!" She shot him a very unfriendly look. "He's not on our side, he's a Death Eater," Harry insisted. She narrowed her already thin eyes. "His father's a Death Eater. It only makes sense." Her jaw tightened. "He's..." He thought back to Diagon Alley; he didn't want to bring up Borgin and Burkes, even if she was claiming to be on their side. "He's got a Dark Mark." She guffawed; she _actually_ guffawed. "It's on his left arm—"

"And when did you see a Dark Mark on his left arm, huh?!" She looked more than perturbed. Harry knew he was in trouble when she stood up and stormed to him. He reached for his wand but she grabbed his wrist—and the next thing he knew he was face-smashed into the cold stone wall of the owlry with his hand wrenched painfully up and behind his back. Hedwig screeched in protest, but didn't fly up. "It doesn't matter, because whatever you say, I know you're lying," She growled into his ear, his anger flaring. "Wanna know why?" A beat. She lowered her voice to a whisper, her breath hot on his ear, against his hair and neck. "I have seen - _every_ \- _inch -_ of his body and I can guarantee—there is not a Dark Mark to be found." She let go of his wrist and stormed back to her perch next to her parcels and sat down as if nothing happened. Harry spun around, his wand at the ready, thunder in his brain. She was sitting, looking at her mail, as if nothing had happened. "Four years ago," she began, her tone rather even, "when you first met Dobby, and the Chamber of Secrets was opened, Hermione Granger was petrified by a Basilisk."

"How do you—?!"

"How do I know about that?" She shook her head. "I could _shock_ you with all the things I knew, that everyone knew."

"'Everyone?' Who's 'everyone?'" He lowered his wand.

"And, yet," she continued, as if Harry had asked nothing, "you two fools figured out what had happened, and how the basilisk got through the castle. Right?" He felt his chest tighten, his heart begin to race. _How much does she know_? "What was written on that sheet of parchment? Except, it _wasn't_ just a sheet of parchment that was clutched in her hand, was it?"

His mind raced back to his second year. He remembered Hermione lying in the hospital, her face frozen, holding a mirror in one hand. And in the other... "It was a crumpled page from a book. It was about basilisks. And it had 'pipes' written on it. Hermione—"

"—would never rip out a page from a book, would she?" Harry paused. "Nor would she write in it, would she?" She tilted her head. "You're her best friend, right? You would know what she would or wouldn't do with books...which is harm them in any way... Would she, Harry?"

The world felt as if it shifted. "No," he said, almost too softly to hear. "No, she wouldn't. Hermione loves books. She'd never..." He frowned. "Then who?"

"Let's explore that, shall we?"said Ella, who pivoted to face him then uncrossed and crossed her legs again, looking rather elegant on her throne of wood and perched owls. "Who knew about the details of the chamber when you were still figuring it out? Or, rather, who did you suspect?" Harry frowned. "Go ahead. List them off. This is how you solve a mystery."

"Er..." He supposed there was no real harm in talking about it now, all things considered. "I suspected people knew about it so they could get..." He frowned. "I thought that Malfoy was the heir of Slytherin. I thought he was the one that opened it."

She seemed annoyed, but nodded. "Okay. Why?"

"Because his father's a Death Eater—!"

"Did you know that at the time?" Harry paused and then decided that he didn't, so he shook his head. "Okay, what did you know at the time?"

"That the Malfoys had been at Hogwarts since it was founded, I guess?" She nodded, then gestured for him to continue. "That, er, they're the oldest Pureblood family that we know of?"

"That's _technically_ not true," said Ella with a glint in her eye, scrunching her nose up a little as she grinned. "But continue." Phoebus ruffled his feathers and stretched out his wings before retracting them again. He hobbled on to Ella's lap, who patted him on the head, like a supervillain would pet a cat in an old spy movie. "Go ahead. What else did you know about who knew?"

"Er, I just suspected Malfoy at the time..." It was long ago. Harry was struggling to uncover all of the memories in the back of his mind. They seemed buried, stones at the bottom of a muddy stream that he was groping about blindly to find the right one to turn over.

"And who _actually_ opened it?"

Harry suspected that she already knew, but was talking to him this way in order to get him to say a specific something. "Ginny," he finally said. "But it wasn't her fault! She was being controlled by Voldemort." The American Slytherin nodded, then gestured for him to continue. "And...she was able to open it because of Tom Riddle's Diary..." She didn't seem confused by this, so he continued. "And she got it from... _Lucius_ Malfoy." She seemed to puff up, much like Hedwig did when she was annoyed. Her face went unnaturally red. She must have realized how she was looking, however, so she cleared her throat and composed herself quickly, again, with the confidence of a serial killer.

"You're on the right track. Now, let's look back. We know that Lucius Malfoy was plotting this whole thing, don't we?" Harry nodded. "He's a jerk, but he's still a dad. What do we know about dads?" A sore subject for Harry... "Well, whether they want us to or not, we hear lots of things from them, right? At the top of the stairs, we hear them. We hear them when they're at work. Right?" Harry didn't know; he felt a familiar sort of malaise creeping over his shoulders. "Dads say things we aren't meant to hear sometimes. So why should Lucius Malfoy be any different? The man's awful, but he's still a dad." A beat. "Don't you think Draco would have heard about the basilisk? The plans?"

"But why would he try to stop it if he did?" He didn't want to repeat that awful word that he kept on hearing from Malfoy's mouth all that year, that foul name that he called Hermione. "I guarantee he felt the same way as his father did towards—"

"—But _can_ you guarantee that?" Harry frowned. "Are you sure that's _actually_ how he felt?" This was getting dangerous. If he admitted that they'd penetrated the Slytherin Common Room using Polyjuice potion in their second year, there's no way that Zamora wouldn't tell everyone. "What if he was just saying that he was to save face? After all, what is the most-important thing to a Slytherin?" Harry had no idea. "Their pride! Duh! A Slytherin would do _anything_ to save face, even when—" She stopped herself. "— _especially_ when they're scared."

"What are you getting at?" Harry demanded.

"I'm _getting at_ this: what person knew about the basilisk, knew about the plans, and would _also_ rip pages out of a book?" A beat. "What person gets scared?"

"It—!" Harry shook his head. "It couldn't have been!" he insisted. "Malfoy couldn't have—!" He looked to Hedwig, who must have been the one to tell Zamora all of this. He realized just then that she must know _everything_ about _everyone_ because of the owls and all of the other birds. They were right smack in the middle of a forest; birds were _everywhere,_ and so were snakes, to which they could both speak. Hedwig, who had been neatly perched on his shoulder this whole time, ruffled her feathers and began cleaning Harry's hair, almost as if to say not to be cross with her for telling. "You—" He frowned, scratching Hedwig's chest, a slow realization over him. "You can understand her?"

"That I can, just like all birds," she said, seeming rather satisfied. She uncrossed her legs, rather pleased with herself, leaning down and opening the parcel at her feet, which was rather small in size, to reveal a blue Chinese fan with painted red poppies, which she snapped open and fluttered, then snapped shut again. Harry set Hedwig down on a perch and reached into his pocket to feed her a treat, which she ate happily, even though he was more than annoyed with her for blabbing. "You shouldn't blame her for telling me. She didn't, actually." He looked up. "Blame Phoebus. He's a terrible gossip." Phoebus hooted loudly.

"But—" Harry shook his head in disbelief. "Are you really saying that _Malfoy_ was the one to plant that ripped page on basilisks in Hermione's hand?"

"That's what the birds say," said Ella. "They see everything, you know."

"I don't understand," he said, shaking his head. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," she admitted, neutral. "He was twelve. I guess he was scared. People do funny things when they're scared." Harry's mind was reeling. If this was true—if _any_ of this was true—then the entire school owed a debt to that git Draco Malfoy? To a single act of good will from the worst person he could imagine? "Professor Hagrid sure does miss you in class, by the way," she mentioned, turning her attention back to her parcels and envelopes.

Jarred, Harry felt a tiny pang of guilt when he remembered the first of the year when they were getting their schedules from McGonagall, and Hagrid said that he noticed that he, Ron and Hermione hadn't enrolled. "Oh, er—" He stumbled a bit over his thoughts, still reeling from the thought that Malfoy might have actually done something good in his wretched life. "The N.E.W.T. classes are—er—a bit much, so—"

"—Yeah, I figured that's what you told him," she said, still looking at her parcels, opening another and smiling. She then looked over to him and grinned. "That's okay. I guess I wouldn't want to be in a class that _my_ dad was teaching, either." Harry blinked in surprise.

"Er, Hagrid's not—" Ella looked up and frowned. "He's just—."

"—Oh, I know he's not like...your _biological_ dad, but Hedwig says—"

"Hedwig?" he repeated in confusion. He looked to Hedwig, who was looking up at him happily. "Hedwig says Hagrid—?" Harry couldn't recall the last time he felt so confused. This certainly was quite a bit to take in, and he frankly didn't know how much more he could take. Harry sat on a rickety stool nearby that was by the wall, taking in a deep breath to calm his racing heart. The wind howled outside, almost violently, and he felt trapped in that room with her.

"Well, sure, all the owls do," she stated matter-of-factly. "I mean, that's what they all say." A beat.

"So...you can hear them all?" She nodded. He then wondered if it was something like what he had experienced with that Burmese python at the zoo, where animals just seemed as if they were speaking plain English. He almost immediately wondered why she was being so nice to him all of a sudden. She seemed just as violently cross with him at Potions the other morning as she always did, so the change in tone was jarring, to say the least. "How do you...?"

"How do I understand them?" Harry nodded. "You know, I really couldn't tell you. They just...I hear them. And they seem to hear and understand me, so..." She shrugged. "Wish I could tell you more. I don't fully understand it, myself. Nobody really does. Animagi like me, ones that were born with the gift, are real oddities. To become an Animagus, it involves a crazy-hard spell and a potion and all this other junk. I'm the odd-one-out."

A beat. "Why _are_ you telling me this?" he asked.

"Honestly?" Zamora shrugged. "I think I just wanted someone my own age that I could talk to about it. I can't really talk to my friends about it because they're not involved. And I can only talk to Tonks or Professor Snape so many times about it. This whole Order business is...a lot." She looked up at him. "I know we've only just now smoked a peace pipe, but since we're relating to each other... Don't you get tired of feeling like you're alone in this?"

"Erm..." He was at a loss. Gryffindor and Slytherin were rivals; it never occurred to him that they could ever be friends in any way. He wasn't sure if he was ready to be friendly at all with her, especially if she wasn't going to call off her cronies. He wasn't sure if he truly believed anything she said, either. Zamora was a brilliant wordsmith, and he guessed that she wasn't above lying, even though Harry didn't know if she'd ever done it for certain. He didn't know what game she was playing. "I'm not alone," he said. "I've got my friends."

She looked away. "Lucky you," she sighed, then went back to reading her letters. _How could she possibly feel alone? She's the most popular witch at Hogwarts..._

"So..." He cleared his throat. "Hedwig really thinks that Hagrid's my...dad?" The thought of it was just so weird; they didn't look a thing alike. Zamora nodded, her right arm still cradling Phoebus, who looked rather content, like a stuffed toy, on her lap.

"All of the birds do, like I said. I mean, it makes sense as to why she would." She then looked up at him and frowned. "Do you not think that he is?" Harry didn't know what to say; he somehow felt a strange tinge of embarrassment, no matter the ridiculousness of the situation. "Wow, not even the _tiniest_ bit?" In her voice, there was a real tinge of sincerity. "Don't you remember the day you got her? It's Hedwig's favorite story to tell."

A beat. He recalled his first day in Diagon Alley, and looked down at his snowy owl, who looked up at him adoringly. "Hagrid," said Harry, softly. Hedwig nibbled at Harry's fingers affectionately. She started chirping and hooting and cawing, as if she were speaking. Zamora laughed a little, as if hearing a favorite old joke. She then sighed and smiled, looking at Hedwig. The other owls cawed and hoot-hooted in response. Harry never thought of them really conversing, but it truly didn't seem unusual, now that he was thinking about it. All creatures could talk; snakes could talk, so why couldn't they talk with each other?

"Aww, that's so nice..." sighed Zamora. She looked up at Harry, and then shook her head a little with a tiny laugh. "Sorry, um..." She cleared her throat and looked to Hedwig. "Would you mind repeating that, please?" Harry looked to Hedwig, who started hooting again, as if orating a book. "She says 'I was in the shop on an autumn day, watching the students come and go, and it was so noisy that I couldn't sleep...'" She hooted and chirped as Zamora translated, nice and slow. "'And a big, kindly wizard with a big black beard came in. He came to my cage...'" Hedwig hooted softly. "'And stopped...smiled...and said "You look mighty bright! I've got a _very_ special young man that could use a good friend while I do my work at Hogwarts. He's getting his wand right now! You'd be his birthday present. How would you like that?"'" Zamora then laughed. "She says 'I thought _I_ was excited to go home with someone, but it didn't compare to how excited _you_ were when we first met.'"

Harry felt his chest swell. How could he had forgotten that? Hedwig was the first birthday present he'd ever gotten. All at once, he remembered the first day at Diagon Alley. He remembered Hedwig's cage being so big he couldn't wrap his arms around it. He remembered that she'd fallen asleep as they left Ollivanders, where Hagrid had surprised him with her. He remembered how he couldn't thank Hagrid enough. He remembered how Hedwig was the only real reminder that Hogwarts, his friends, his new life wasn't just some dream. How could he have forgotten? Hedwig nibbled on his fingers. Harry wanted so much to pick her up and crush her close to his chest, to crumble to the floor.

"Who introduced you to the Wizarding world?" she then asked.

Harry gulped, his neck and shoulders tensing, a strange feeling of ants crawling up and down his legs washing over him. "Hagrid," he croaked.

"Who always invites you for tea and sweets once per week and makes sure you go to bed with a full stomach when you do go?" He was about to ask how she knew that, but it was likely that it was from Hedwig. "Who bakes you a birthday cake every year?"

Mrs. Weasley, of course, and so did Sirius, but... "Hagrid," Harry breathed, the weight of everything beginning to crush his chest. A peeping and cooing from above was heard, and it was an eagle owl, which seemed to be talking. Zamora's eyebrows raised, as if she were reminded of something.

"Sunny says: 'Who _always_ is at your Quidditch games, cheering you on, no matter how busy his job is taking care of the grounds? Who rushes down like all Hell has broken loose when you get hurt on the field?'"

 _Hermione and Ron, of course, but..._ "Hagrid." A barn owl swooped down and hooted, perching next to Phoebus. Zamora nodded in agreement with whatever it was saying.

"Amaranth says: 'When Ron got himself hexed in your second year, who did you _instinctively_ know to go to for help, instead of going to the hospital wing?'"

 _The slugs..._ He remembered how he wiped Hermione's tears away. He remembered how he took care of Ron. He remembered how Hagrid was always there when Harry needed him...always. "Hagrid." An old screech owl swooped down at Harry's feet, and then hobbled up to him, chirping and hooting, its eyes boring into his soul.

"Archimedes says: 'When you found out about Hogwarts, who was there, to make sure you felt safe and happy before he threw you into the wizarding world? Who made sure you were fed and taken care of? Who answered all of your questions, as openly and honestly as he could?'"

He felt a crack within his chest, and he felt as if his legs had turned to jelly. Every owl knew. "Hagrid..." Phoebus hoot-hooted, and Zamora nodded, as if he had brought up a good point.

"Phoebus says "Who took the time to make you a photo album of your birth parents so you could see what they looked like? Who asked all around for pictures of them from their friends, just so you could have it?"

"H-Hagrid..." stammered Harry, tears stinging his eyes. Phoebus hoot-hooted again, and several other owls hooted in agreement.

"They say: 'Who _always_ picks you in Care of Magical Creatures class, and makes sure to encourage you when you do something right?'"

A terrible yowling guilt filled Harry from inside his gut, and he suddenly felt a horrible twist within him. "Hagrid," he whispered, his voice now cracking. Hedwig hopped a bit closer and hoot-hooted, then chirped, then hooted again, nibbling at Harry's sleeve. The old screech at Harry's feet hoot-hooted in agreement. Zamora gave a tiny giggle, and then Hedwig looked to her and chirp-chirp-chirped, then back to Harry, almost smiling.

"Aww..." Zamora sighed. "Hedwig says: 'When we first met, your dad said "I can't wait for Harry to meet you, he's gonna love you.""

Harry swallowed the hard lump that was growing in his throat. "She really remembers all of that?" breathed Harry.

"Owls are smart," stated Zamora. "They wouldn't be a wizard's best friend if they weren't." Harry's vision blurred with tears of shame, full of bile and regret, feeling so foolish and blind. He had always felt Hagrid was a dear old friend, but never anything more than that. But what friend did all the things that Hagrid did for anyone? Zamora must have sensed his swelling tears, his aching heart, for she adopted a rather joking tone and asked "Who bakes you treats and wears a frilly pink apron around the house?'"

His voice felt raw as he choked out a tiny laugh. "Is that something exclusive to dads?"

Zamora laughed. "At least the dads that cook," she replied. "They're always wearing the frilly pink apron. My dad makes _tortillas_ and _jamon_ for breakfast and he _always_ wears my mom's pink apron. It's amazing," she chortled. "When I would go to sleepovers at friends' houses, I'd always see a frilly pink apron in the kitchen. I think they hand them out at the hospital when you have your baby, along with the cigars and beanies." Harry couldn't help but laugh, the sting of tears in his eyes. "Listen, I know we're not friends, but..." She cleared her throat. "I feel like I need to say: As someone who had a parent that she knew, and _then_ lost, you don't want to wait until it's too late to tell them how grateful you are for everything they did for you."

Harry gulped. He felt her sincerity; he could see it in her normally steely-cold, shark-like eyes. "Your mother?" Zamora nodded.

"We fought endlessly," she admitted. "The last conversation I had with her was about sending cupcakes for my birthday..." She then wiped away what Harry assumed to be a tear, and her face went dry and almost jovial, likely in an attempt to mask any pain she may have been feeling. "I told her how sick I was of her stupid red velvet cupcakes and that I was too old for them." She sighed a bit. "It's funny, the things you take for granted. I really _would_ like to have one of those cupcakes again. I know how to make them, too, of course, but...there's just something about the way your mom makes stuff that you can never recreate."

"I guess I wouldn't know," said Harry bitterly.

"Sure you would," Zamora argued. "You can't fool the owls. Hagrid sends you treats all the time over the summer. There must be _something_ that comes to mind."

The wind howled outside, echoing the bitter cold in Harry's heart. His mind raced, and he thought back to the first birthday cake, a sticky chocolate cake with pink icing and green letters. He thought then to the cake Hagrid had sent some years later, when Dudley had been put on a diet...it was a custard sponge sandwich, and it was the one that Harry had saved for last. He'd recalled eating Hermione's first, and then the one from Mrs. Weasley for he didn't want it to stale. Sirius's cake had arrived just in time for it to be a relief of light mango filling, and it had seemed so exotic and exciting that Harry almost didn't eat Hagrid's until he thought it might have gone bad...but it didn't. It was still moist and more filling than the rest had all been, full of thick custard that was flavored with vanilla. It was the plainest of the cakes, but it had satisfied and sustained him the longest.

Harry thought, and thought, and escaped into his mind, a memory of the food Hagrid had given him, the first _real_ meals he'd had, that wasn't just scraped off of Dudley's plate. He thought of the burgers in Paddington station, which looked comically tiny in Hagrid's giant hands. Harry recalled the smell of the grilled onions and the floppy lettuce. He remembered asking Hagrid questions, who answered them patiently. He remembered the first time at Gringott's, and how he had clung to Hagrid's coat in fear when he saw the goblins. He remembered the tea and sweet buns. He remembered Hagrid insisting that he take extra treats in his pockets for the trip back to the castle in case he got hungry.

"Yeah..." He didn't know what to say. He felt like screaming; he felt humiliated for being so blind, and quite dizzy for how violently his view of what he knew had been shifted so quickly. He almost felt sick, and his insides ached for all the years of pain he'd felt. Harry gulped.

"See?" He looked up; Zamora was now grinning, looking more than satisfied with herself. "You realize it. I do, too, of course. It's not just because of the birds; it's also because I've got a dad that's a lot like yours." She then laughed. "As someone with the daddy-est dad in all of Dad-dom to ever dad, you have a dad, and his name is Professor Hagrid." Harry looked up at her. "Maybe you should tell him thanks, or something, before it's too late. You never know what'll happen in the war to come. You don't want to have anything left unsaid. It's...a pretty awful feeling."

"I—" He choked a bit. He should have said something. He should be saying 'thank you,' absurdly. But to think Hermione was right about Zamora all along shouldn't have been so surprising. Hermione was almost-always right about...well, everything. But did that mean that Dumbledore knew? It must have been why she was even allowed to come here in the first place. Hogwarts wasn't akin to accepting exchange students, especially after the debacle of the Triwizard Tournament. The exchange program was set to allow the students to choose which school they attend. It was unfolding in his mind on why Hogwarts hadn't been chosen; who would want to come to the school that Lord Voldemort graduated from? It made sense that the program was a perfect ruse, or perfect cover, to admit a new student in to Slytherin, to learn the inner-workings of Death Eaters. It _all_ slowly made sense that she really was on their side. But was it true that Malfoy wasn't a Death Eater? Could Ella Zamora be trusted?

"You gonna send that?" He snapped out of his daze. He noticed that the letter to Mr. Weasley had fallen to the floor in the skirmish.

"Oh." He bent at the knee and picked the envelope up. It seemed...trivial now to send it and ask about the weird cabinet. He pocketed the letter. "No, er..." He rose. "It's too windy to send anything now," he croaked. "I think I'll go..." He trailed off and pulled his scarf tight around his throat and over his face, then turned on his heel and left the owlry. The wind and snow violently gusted at him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

" _Calmoviento_!"

The wind slowed, then stopped, and Harry opened his eyes to see Hogwarts castle, draped in white, the snowflakes suspended in the air. Everything looked like it was in a snowglobe, too tranquil and picturesque to be real. All of it looked like a scene from a movie. Zamora appeared in the doorway, packages under her arm, her wand in hand. Phoebus swooped out and landed on the stone railing, cawing and stretching his wings. Hedwig came out, too, and Harry held out his wrist for her to land on.

"Seriously," she said, her face showing no sign of joking. "This whole conversation is just between us. No Ron. No Hermione. No nobody." A beat. "Right?" Harry paused and considered all that had happened just then. Finally, he regained some semblance of composure and nodded silently. Zamora smiled. She then reached under her arm and handed Harry a parcel. "Don't open until Christmas. And don't ask where—or _how_ —I got it. I'm probably in big trouble for it, but it doesn't belong to me, anyway, so it may as well go to you."

"What's that mean?"

"It _means_ 'don't open until Christmas and don't ask where or how I got it.' _D'accord_?"

Harry wasn't sure what 'dah-koh' meant, but he nodded anyway. He looked down in his hands at a large envelope made of brown paper, all tied up with string. He couldn't pull together enough coherent thoughts to create a sentence. Zamora seemed content enough with his silence, though, and grinned as she walked passed him down the steps. Phoebus flapped his wings and landed on her shoulder, rubbing against the top of her head affectionately.

"Wait!"he called. She turned around and looked up at him. He wanted to say 'thank you,' to say 'sorry,' for everything. There was still quite a bit between them that was difficult, but that didn't mean that she was necessarily bad...did it? If she really was on their side, and if she really was trying to help... "Er—I-I didn't get _you_ anything for Christmas!" he said, absurdly.

She laughed a little. "That's okay, I have everything I want." And then turned around and walked down the stairs.

* * *

I had initially intended to do a lighthearted chapter, with a tiny bit of crossection of Hogwarts life, but you know I had to sprinkle some emotions in there...

Rubeus Hagrid is my absolute favorite, and I cannot STAND how a good deal of the Harry Potter fandom sees Sirius Black as the closest thing Harry has to a father. Sirius is the cool gay uncle that gets listened to and gets to have all the fun. Hagrid is the dad that takes you shopping and feeds you and you just get to be an ungrateful little teenager that doesn't go to his class when he's teaching. Hagrid was a GENUINELY nice guy that did everything he could for Harry, and went unnoticed for it, just like dads do.

Your dad is never as cool as Sirius. Your dad is a weirdo that gives you hugs and feeds you burgers and has a bunch of half-finished home improvement projects lying around, constantly reminiscing about how little you used to be. Ginny and Harry should have named their daughter Ruby... ANOTHER THING!

In the beginning of Chamber of Secrets, we see a young Draco Malfoy in the book shop, reading a book before ripping out a page and stuffing it in his pocket. _Why_ show that? What's the point of that, except to spark the fan theory that it was Draco that stuffed the book page in Hermione Granger's hand. When you're 12, you go through rebellious phases, and maybe his was trying to be good?

So Harry knows that Ella's part of the Order, now, and is on their side. He's slowly beginning to flex those investigative muscles of his, which will someday turn him into a first-rate Auror. One of the best things about Harry Potter books is that they are, in fact, mystery books that are disguised as fantasy books. Who opened the Chamber of Secrets? Who is the Half-Blood Prince? What are the Deathly Hallows? If you strip away the magic, it's a prep school mystery novel series. At every turn, the plot thickens, just like this story will. Bwahaha.

Big thanks to HeartofAspen, Pancakestack, SabrinaJasmine, and all my other reviewers!


	26. Chapter 26

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Hermione 17**

* * *

Order was called in the emergency Prefect meeting, attended by the head of each Hogwarts House, all of the prefects, plus one: Ella Zamora, who was looking somehow a combination of stoic and perturbed. She was standing next to Pansy Parkinson, that _cow,_ who was looking even more outwardly distressed. Draco was standing near them, but not _next_ to them. Hannah Abbot seemed most interested, and/or hopeful, for how the situation would turn out, for she was whispering something to Ernie Macmillan - who was also a member of the Dueling Club.

"Think she's getting expelled?" Ron whispered to Hermione.

"Shh!" hissed Hermione as Professor Snape stepped forward.

"As some of you may know," Professor Snape began, "We take the role of Prefect seriously and we do not assign the title _lightly_. A Prefect is meant to lead by example, maintaining above average grades, patrolling the hallways, and making sure that all under their care are well attended to." He glanced around the room. "It has come to my attention that Miss Parkinson is unfit for the job of representing Slytherin House—"

Ron snickered, and all eyes went to him. His face fell. He cleared his throat. Professor Snape did _not_ look amused.

"And therefore," continued Professor Snape, "The Slytherin Prefect for the graduating class of 1998 will be Miss Ella Zamora." He gestured to Ella, who came up next to him, and Hermione's heart went to her throat. She had to admit that Ella's grades rivaled only hers in the whole school, and her achievements, of course, were impressive—but _dammit_ are you serious?! "It is my hope that you will all make her feel welcome during this transitional period." He motioned for Pansy to step forward, which she did. "Well?" Pansy Parkinson then huffed quite a bit, ripped the silver Prefect pin off her shirt and shoved it into Ella Zamora's open hand, causing quite a loud scene as she stormed out of the room. Ella rolled her eyes, quite unimpressed, and pinned the pin on the dimple of her tie. The room was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. This was bad; it was going to be like letting a tiger out of the cage.

Ella smiled. "Thank you, everyone," she began. "I know this is unusual. I know this title means a great deal to all of you. I guarantee that it is not my intent to besmirch this title and the privileges that go with it." She then locked eyes with Hermione, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck go stiff. Her face felt flush, fervid as a flame. Her eyes felt like they were going to explode. "Let's all be civilized. There's no reason to make any more of a fuss of it than she did." Ella nodded pointedly towards the door, and everyone seemed to be mollified by her joke.

"Thank you, Miss Zamora. Take a seat with the rest of your Prefects. Let's begin."

On the 2nd of every month, the Prefects all met to discuss business. This could mean anything from disciplinary issues, complaints or grievances between Houses...and sometimes took audiences from clubs or Student Council should they needed aid on something. Ella was taking notes with a quill made of a white peacock plume, which was the gift she'd gotten from Malfoy last year after the fountain pen fiasco.

She meant to be paying attention, but she couldn't help but wonder how—between dance class, dueling club, _and_ NEWT classes—Ella was doing it all, but she guessed that she, too, was using a Time-Turner. Then Hermione noticed Draco...looking. He was looking at Ella in such a funny way, not that _she_ noticed, she wondered if...? Well, she wasn't certain what she was wondering. Hermione was, in fact, so distracted by her own emotions that she missed half of what they were even talking about, and before she knew it the meeting was over. It was Wednesday evening, so most were off to the Great Hall, or possibly off to the Library. She was off to the first Slug Club dinner, though, all alone. Harry had been getting private occlumency lessons from Dumbledore, and—unfortunately—avoiding Professor Slughorn for the moment...but she hoped that he would change his mind and come, so she wouldn't have to do it all on her own.

The Prefect girl's bathroom was a great place to be alone and think. She _could_ have gotten ready in the Gryffindor bathroom, but the thought of being around anyone else at that moment wasn't her favorite. For some reason, the Prefect girl's bathroom was almost always unoccupied. Tonight, Hermione came in to find Ella, stepping out of the bath. She gave a tiny shriek and turned away, shielding her eyes with her palm.

"Oh, hey!"

"Sorry—!"

"No, it's okay, come in." Hermione peeked over her hand. "You've got the same stuff as me," she said. Shyly, Hermione went off to the cupboard where she kept her change of clothes, unlocked with Hermione's wand. All of the prefects got their own cupboards in the bathrooms, assigned and locked with wand recognition combinations. Hermione stuffed herself into one of the admittedly comfortable stalls and changed. She came out to see Ella sitting at one of the vanities, her hair tied up in...well, it wasn't a towel, was it? She smiled at her in the reflection of the mirror and went back to...what _was_ she doing?

The young Gryffindor came closer to the line of vanities, each with mirrors and lights, and saw that Ella was...rubbing the bulb end of a large phial with an ice-blue liquid in it, all over her face. She must have been staring, for she gave a tiny laugh and said: "Cold is good for your skin." She then wiped off the glass with a hand towel and offered it to Hermione. "Wanna try? It feels great."

"Um, no thank you," said Hermione, sitting. "How did you get here so fast?" she asked, almost certain at this point that Snape had, in fact, given her a time turner.

"I flew," said Ella, pulling out another phial and dabbing a bit in her palms, then rubbing it over her face. "Being at Ilvermorny, you learn to get places quickly, _and_ take quick showers." She then took out her makeup bag. "Hogwarts is tiny compared to it. Did you know that we're allowed bicycles to get to the other parts of the campus? Broomsticks, too, but you have to be at least a fifth year for that. Even the first years can have bicycles."

"Bicycles in the halls?" said Hermione, aghast.

"No, just to get around the grounds," laughed Ella, who then took a single snail out of a glass jar of many snails, held the poor creature upside-down, tickled its slimy underbelly with her ring finger and dabbed the slime beneath her eyes. Hermione went a little green, then turned her attention to the mirror. "My own bicycle was gold," continued Ella, as if Hermione weren't intensely uncomfortably going to change behind her vanity's partition. She decided to skip the bath and simply change her clothes, put on fresh socks and shoes, etc. It was nice to wear her own clothes, sometimes, but Hermione still loved her Hogwarts uniform; it made her feel like she belonged there. She put on a nice skirt and a respectable cardigan, and when she came out, Ella was still working on her face, paying special attention to darkening her already dark eyebrows. She swathed a bit of lipstick on her full mouth, which did look rather naturally pink, so Hermione wondered why she was even needing it. Her eyes met hers in the mirror. "You're staring," she japed.

Hermione quickly turned away and turned her attention to the mirror in front of her. Not wanting to be outdone, she pulled out her own makeup bag and glanced at the contents: a packet of dental floss, a tube of chapstick, a pair of tweezers, a tube of mascara that had coated other contents completely with soot-looking black, and some eyeshadow in brown that she hadn't used since 4th year. She snorted a bit and took out the chapstick, smearing it on her lips. She then felt Ella's eyes on her. Glancing over, she was looking rather smug. Hermione quickly looked away.

"Okay, that's it—" Ella said, putting her makeup brush down. "What's your deal with me, anyway, huh?" Hermione felt her face grow hot. "You still mad about last year?" Hermione said nothing. "Come on. Let's have a truce." She looked up with a frown. "Seriously. Now that Harry's on my radar, you're not my frenemy anymore." Ella quirked an eyebrow and smiled. "Come on. You and I are the brightest witches in this whole damn place. We should be on the same side. Don't you think?" Ella extended her hand. "Truce?"

 _Truce_ _?!_ thought Hermione incredulously. Ella then seemed rather insulted and turned her attention back to the mirror.

"Cormac's got a crush on you..." sang-songed Ella, who then went back to getting dressed. She pulled a strappy green halter out and slipped it over her head. Hermione went beet red when she dropped the towel and looked away as she slipped on her knickers beneath the skirt. She then flipped her head over and took her head out of the scarf in a turret of annoyingly perfect black curls, that fell very softly all down her shoulders and down her back. She then opened up a wooden jewelry box with a gordian knot carved into it pulled out a silver cuff, which she placed around her wrist.

"He's vile," stammered Hermione, realizing she didn't have anything else to do. She was dressed and clean. She smeared on another layer of chapstick and pretended to check her teeth.

"Give him a chance," she argued, dabbing a bit of light-colored powder at the top of her already high cheekbones. "He's good-looking, with a family of a good political standing. He's well-connected, athletic... He's probably used to getting what he wants, likely rewarded for that pig-headed confidence." She then smiled at Hermione, with a quirked eyebrow. "Five dragots says he looks at you the way he does because he thinks that you'll like it. He probably thinks it makes you feel attractive."

"'Attractive?!'" gasped Hermione.

"I know, I know—'smash the patriarchy,' 'my eyes are up here,' 'I'm more than my boobs,' blah blah blah...'" She shrugged and pulled out a pair of sheer caramel-colored stockings and rolled them up and over her naked legs, all the way up to her thighs. "Those silver-spooned jerks... I certainly know the type, but I also know that it's sometimes the ones we would normally overlook that end up surprising you the most."

 _What in the world does_ that _mean?!_ She thought. _Is she trying to tell me that Draco's the one she'd overlook?_ "He's also got the intellect of a concussed troll," shot Hermione, pretending to fix her hair.

"Hm. There _is_ that," agreed Ella, now taking a small jar labeled "unicorn snot" and opening it to reveal a gloopy, glittery, rainbow-colored gel that she then smeared a bit on her collarbone. "Want some?" she asked, offering the jar.

"No, thank you," said Hermione with a shake of her head, wondering if it was _actual_ unicorn snot.

"I just figured you liked that type. You know, Viktor Krum and all." Hermione felt her whole face turn red. She then immediately scolded herself—of _course_ that little sneak would know about that. It was all over the papers, thanks to Rita Skeeter; and the Triwizard Tournament was an international sensation, so it wasn't surprising to learn that she knew... But still! To even bring it up! "I'm not judging, by the way—I totally get it. I like being the smartest one in the room, too. But when it comes to relationships, I personally like someone that I can really have a deep conversation with. Naturally, jocks aren't my thing."

 _Jocks_? "So...?" She looked over. Hermione struggled to find the right words. "Why are you...?"

"Why am I dating Draco?" laughed Ella. Hermione nodded. She shook her head and laughed a bit through her nose, turning back to the mirror. "Well, he's not really a typical 'jock', in every sense... I don't know, he's—" Hermione then saw a flush of her cheeks, and then saw that she quickly suppressed any _real_ emotion she might have been feeling at the moment and went back to her shallow exterior. "He's a really good dancer," she said, applying a bit more mascara on her bottom lashes. "And he's...y'know, sweet, and generous—"

" _'Generous'_?!" balked Hermione before she could stop herself.

"Yes. Generous," snapped the American. She then held up her wrist. "He's always buying me stuff. This bangle for instance." She took it off and handed it to Hermione. "It's _real_ silver. And do you see those dots punched out? It's not just dots; it's the constellation Pisces, which is _my_ star sign. I saw a bangle like this in Hogsmeade and almost bought it when Draco said—" she adopted a hilariously bad British accent, likely unknowing at how comically bad it was "—'oy can git yew one wif _real_ silvah!' And sure, at first, I was like, 'as if'! But then it totally showed up on my bed a few days later. So I was like 'okay, _papi_ , major points.'" She _accio_ 'd the bangle back onto her wrist. "You should _try_ getting a boyfriend, sometime. Once you get out of your own head, they're actually _really_ great to have."

She scoffed, trying rather hard to not be so visibly irritated. "As if I have time for boys! I'm far too preoccupied with my studies."

"That's an excuse for ugly girls," she said, reaching down the front of her dress and adjusting herself in the mirror. Hermione's jaw dropped. "Hmm..." She reached into her bag and pulled out a sort of something wrapped in a finely embroidered handkerchief, which was then pulled away to reveal a bouquet of very nice flowers, of all colors. She looked at them for a moment before deciding on a purplish-pink flowers that looked a bit like hydrangeas, only quite a bit smaller. Zamora then swept her long curls over to one side and twisted them into a thick braid, then pulled at the strands to make them look even thicker, before popping the tiny flowers here and there through. She then looked a bit bored. "What do you think? With or without the heliotropes?"

"I-It's..." Hermione shook her head and shrugged. "What you like is fine." Zamora smirked.

"You know, Hermione, you're a really pretty girl. There's nothing wrong with showing that."

"What are you playing at?" shot Hermione, feeling quite defensive.

Her eyebrows dropped in annoyance. "I'm actually trying to be nice," deadpanned Zamora, a very tired look on her face, "but you are not making it easy." She then pulled out a knitted cardigan with silver buttons, that looked quite slinky and polished, and pulled it over her arms and shoulders. It was embroidered with a silver 'E' in a fine silver thread. "I'll see you there," she said, shoving her shoulder bag into the drawer beneath the vanity, a soft click locking it for safe keeping.

"Wait!" called Hermione as Zamora pulled her shoes on. "I—" She gulped when she turned to face her. "I don't— I don't mean to be... _difficult_ , if you really are trying to make peace..." She grinned and put her hands on her hips. "Just...maybe if you could tell me one more thing?" Zamora nodded. "Why are you a Prefect now? It must have been an extreme case with Pansy Parkinson." Zamora narrowed her already-thin eyes and walked back over to the stool. She sat down and leaned forward, getting her face uncomfortably close.

"So we're clear—" she extended her hand "—this doesn't leave this bathroom. Got it? I accept that you're a total Cherry Slush Club Reject. But I hope that you know that this is still covered under the sacred laws of womanhood."

Hermione hadn't ever been so confused. "'Cherry Slush Club...?'"

Zamora's eyes went from narrow to wide open. "No, seriously? You mean you're a sixth year and you've _never_ summoned by the Basement Vampire?"

"'Basement Vampire—?'"

"'The Red Troll?'" A beat. "'Riding the cotton mouse?'" Hermione blinked. "'Surfing the crimson tide?'"

"Uhm—"

"Have you ever had a period?"

"Oh!" gasped Hermione. Her face went bright red. "Er, yes..." she squeaked. "But—" She shook her head. "What does that mean, 'Cherry Slush Club reject?!'"

"It means that none of the other girls actually like you, probably because you seem to prefer the company of boys to them."

"That's not true!" gasped Hermione. "I get along plenty fine with Ginny—"

"—Okay, but that's _one_ girl. The rest of the other girls don't like you." Hermione felt as if she'd been slapped in the face, and her eyes welled with tears. "I can change that, though." She opened a drawer and pulled out a box of tampons. "Please place your left hand on the box and raise your right."

"You can't be serious! It's not a Bible—!"

"—You wanna know or not?"

A bit humiliated, Hermione put her left hand on the box and raised her right.

"State your full name."

She swallowed the lump in her throat and cringed. "Hermione Jean Granger."

"Do you, Hermione Jean Granger, solemnly swear that you will honor all privileged information as such, with discretion, and respect, and to let it be understood that no man will ere supercede our sacred bond of Blood Sisterhood?"

 _Isn't this a bit much..._? "I-I do."

Zamora seemed rather satisfied and put the box away. "Okay, cool. You're now in. I'll tell the others. You can now come down to the dance studio when you want. The password changes a lot, but it's currently the mashed potato."

"The—?"

"You know, the dance? The mashed potato?" Zamora stood up and performed a funny sort of dance that looked a bit like stomping a cigarette out combined with chicken-wing flapping. Hermione realized then that she'd seen that dance before, but she was unsure of the actual name of it. Ella sat down and smiled. "See? Easy! Just do that, in front of the statue, and it'll open up."

"You can create non-verbal passwords?" gasped Hermione.

"Of course," said the Slytherin. "Because we're new friends, I'll tell you _this_ secret: Gawain Mason was a mute, so the statue _only_ responds to gestures and dances! That's why Salazar Slytherin chose him to help build Hogwarts, so nobody would ever hear the secrets of how it was built. He was, like, a _totally_ brilliant builder."

Hermione vaguely recalled the name Mason in Hogwarts: A History, but didn't say anything.

"The statue of Gawain Mason is in the dungeon downstairs. The Mason line's now extinct, technically, but it'll open for its descendents with the password...and the descendents can change the password, as needed! He built himself a secret workshop in the dungeons. Then, when his son, Gawain II, went to school, he gave the secret to him, so he could continue working and creating... I turned it into a dance studio!" Hermione balked. "Oh, hush, it's not like I got rid of all of the tools. I just cleared the way and cleaned it up a bit! It's pretty cool down there, now." She leaned her elbow on the top of her vanity. "You know, I might reconsider sending any kids I have to Ilvermorny because of it. It'd be pretty cruddy of me to deny them something so cool that was meant for them. Don't you think?" Hermione frowned. "Um, we're friends now? You could contribute to this conversation, too, you know."

"Sorry—" She cleared her throat. "I mean..." Hermione shrugged. "I think...yes, you're right. If you were to have any children, you should send them to Hogwarts. They'd have a wonderful advantage here that they wouldn't otherwise have at Ilvermorny." She then shook her head. "So, wait, you mean to say that _you_ have ties to Hogwarts since it was built?"

"Apparently," said Ella with a shrug.

"So you've got bloodlines older than the Malfoys?"

She blasted out a big laugh. "I don't think I'd go _that_ far," said she. "Draco's Patents of Purity go further back than mine, and his is better documented."

"And a Patent of Purity is like...a pedigree?" asked the young Gryffindor.

"I guess," shrugged Ella again. "To be honest, I'm kind of new to this whole... _Pureblood_ thing." Hermione frowned, recalling all of the fights she'd gotten into with Umbridge the previous year. "Oops! Look at the time! We'd better fly." She stood up, and Hermione jumped up to follow.

"Hang on!" she cried, running up to her side. Ella didn't slow, so they ended up walking out together. "You never told me why you're a Prefect now."

She snorted a bit through her nose as they climbed the stairs up to get out of the Prefect Girl's bathroom. "I'm being punished." Hermione's jaw dropped. _Punished?! Being a Prefect is an_ honor _, not a burden!_ As they walked, Hermione then reminded herself that Ella Zamora's constant loathing of authority and restrictions were likely the worst kind of punishment on the face of the planet for her. In an attempt to meet her halfway, Hermione decided to muster up the courage to contribute to the conversation by the time they reached the hallway and found the stairs downward.

"So...what are you being punished for?" she asked, trying to sound compassionate.

The Slytherin scoffed. "Draco and I were caught doing it in the Forbidden Forest. Haven't you heard?" Hermione's face went red. It shouldn't have been shocking, at all, really... But Malfoy hadn't ever appeared to be outwardly affectionate. Frankly, the thought of him being anything other than foul and loathsome was somehow impossible. "The whole stupid school's talking about it. I've also got detention for a while. It's only a month...I'm scrubbing floors with Filch and his cat. But, hey, Professor Snape's determined to keep me occupied. I guess McGonagall's gotten wind of it, too," she said bleakly.

"What makes you say that?" gasped Hermione. "Did she say something to you?"

"No, but..." She sighed through her throat. "You know how we were doing the eyebrow color change transfiguration in class the other day, right?" Hermione nodded. Professor McGonagall had snapped at Ella halfway through class for transfiguring the bottom half of her face to look like a bull elephant's trunk. Malfoy and Nott had laughed, of course, but Professor McGonagall had been _far_ less amused, which she showed by snapping her wand at Zamora's face which caused it to go back to normal with a crack. After Zamora had apologized and said it was because she 'got bored,' the Professor suggested three scrolls on Cross-Species Switching should keep her occupied, and to come back to her office after her evening meal. "So I _thought_ she was going to give me detention. But I go to her after dinner and now I'm her T.A.!"

"T.A.?" Hermione recalled teachers aides in primary school, before she discovered that she was a witch, but... "Wait, she asked _you_ to be her T.A.?"

Ella frowned. "Is that so weird?" asked she. "I mean, I'm the top of the class..."

A pang of panic struck Hermione's heart. She'd been at the top of her class since coming in most subjects, but Zamora had knocked her down to #2 in everything she had previously been proficient at. Ancient Runes was a class she'd still been top of, but she feared it was because she wasn't in it. She blew passed her in Transfiguration, she _clobbered_ her in Potions, and now that Professor Snape was the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Hermione was certain that she'd be left in the dust. Professor Snape _had_ always had it out for her, and seemed to just adore Zamora instead, simply showering her with points for Slytherin. She had somehow hoped that having Professor Slughorn teaching potions that she would catch up to her, but she'd been falling further and further behind with _everything_ she made, and she didn't know why. Hermione had followed the instructions _to the letter,_ but barely _half_ of the potions turned out as perfectly as she used to. She didn't know what was wrong with her, and it was all made harder with Harry and that bloody old textbook.

"To be honest, though, she didn't really _ask_ me..." Hermione looked up, her eyes feeling a bit hot with stinging tears. She quickly wiped them as Zamora walked on, thankfully unaware. "She just sat me down and had me start grading tests and papers." She sighed through her nose. "Oh well. It gives me something to do. My free time, though, has gone down a lot...almost to non-existent. It's whatever, I guess. I can do what I want when I'm older, right?" Hermione gulped and nodded, a panic filling her heart. Being the smartest was the only thing she had; and now she... _wasn't._ "It's fun to think about the future. Maybe I can even come back to Hogwarts when I'm, like, 60 or something and become the new Transfigurations professor? I don't know. I mean, _she_ was the one that suggested it."

A pang of horror struck Hermione like lightning. "Pro—" She could barely form a thought. It was thought that Professor McGonagall felt about Zamora the way Professor Snape felt about Hermione, but at least _she_ had been a good enough professor to assign points fairly. A very strange stab of jealousy wrang in her heart, and her mouth went entirely dry.

"It's so weird. I guess I like to play 'what if' with my future, but to _actually_ consider becoming a teacher as a real possibility instead of being a potioneer is just somehow...I don't know. I can't explain how I feel about it."

"You mean you wouldn't teach potions?" croaked Hermione, trying to sound as casual as she could.

"Oh, potions is great! But I don't think I'd be good at teaching it. I tutor Transfigurations, anyway, as a side-job."

"'Side job?'" _How much was she doing?! She_ must _be using a time-turner!_

"Yeah, you know, for some spending money? I can't exactly ask my dad for money while I'm here, and I hate asking my grandmother for anything... So, hey, I tutor Transfigurations for everyone! It's three galleons and 10 sickles an hour for sixth and seventh years, two galleons an hour for fifth and fourth years, and one galleon per hour for everyone younger than that." She then smiled. "You know, you could make a decent chunk of change for tutoring Ancient Runes, or whatever it is you're into."

She then scoffed, her face red hot. "L-Learning shouldn't cost anything! In fact, you should be ashamed of yourself for charging! You should just help people, if you're so smart!"

"Green's not a good color on you—stick to red."

"'Green—?'"

Zamora snorted a little. "It _means_ you're just jealous."

Hermione felt as if she might vomit. The bitter sting of reality was that she was, in fact, jealous. She'd felt like an outcast all of her life, being able to move things with her eyes and making things happen when she was angry or scared. When she was accepted to Hogwarts, and all had been explained...well, she felt as if thing were going to be wonderful. No wonder she was a lousy Muggle—she was actually a good witch! But just when things were changing, things were going her way, _she_ had to come in. _She_ , with her perfect curly hair and perfect stupid skin and her perfect grades and perfect spellwork. And now she was just _given_ the position of Prefect, as a _punishment_?! The idea was unthinkable, and yet it was happening! It was quite clear that she was now living in some awful alternative Universe where dreadful things happened just willy-nilly.

"You know," Zamora's words snapped her a bit out of her self-loathing, spiralling daze. "You _could_ make an effort, too. I held up my end of the bargain."

She pouted a little. "You did," sighed the young Gryffindor. She supposed that Hermione was, a bit, at fault for the hostility between the two of them over last year. Hermione had cost Gryffindor quite a few points because of it, and if Ella really was an exchange student, it was quite obvious that _she_ was being seen as the bully, not her. Her father, the governors of Hogwarts...Hermione was nearly suspended. It wasn't easy to forgive and forget; she didn't suspect her to do the same. In fact, she suspected it was all going to be some horrible trick; she'd go down to the dance studio and the entire school would be waiting as she walked into some awful trap in which she'd have pig's blood dumped all over her in buckets, cameras all around.

They climbed the stairs in silence, and Malfoy appeared around the corner, who looked tense when they caught eyes.

"Hey," greeted Ella, her voice a little stiff.

"Where you off to?" he asked, a light frown on his pale forehead.

"Slug Club dinner," she answered. "On your way down to the Great Hall?" He nodded silently, his eyes darting between Ella and herself. "Say hi for me. I wish I were eating with you all instead."

Malfoy then smirked and glanced at Hermione and said "I don't blame you, considering the company you'll be keeping."

"Be nice to her, please," Ella insisted, causing the both of them to look at her, wide-eyed. There was an odd pause between them that seemed too tense.

"Okay..." said Malfoy, who looked rather confused.

"We'd better go. I'll see you later." Ella then linked her arm with Hermione's and ushered her along up the corridor. They only got a few steps away when Malfoy called.

"Hey!" They both turned around. "How come you never wear your hair for me like that?"

"I don't know." Hermione heard Ella's breath stifle a little. "I didn't think you'd like it, I guess."

"I like it," he said.

Ella smiled. "Oh. Okay. I'll do it more often." A beat. "See you after." And she pulled Hermione along with her, a bit of hurry in her step.

 _I've never seen him like that before..._ "He...really does seem to like you," said Hermione, quietly, as they turned the corner.

"Actually," she sighed, "I think he loves me."

It shouldn't have sounded so ridiculous, but she soon realized that most of her proverbial pustules that year had come from Ella, and _not_ Malfoy, just in time to get in to Slughorn's office. It was decorated nicely with a beautiful table, and there were many there already: the Carrow Twins, Marcus Belby, Neville, and Blaise Zabini were all there. Cormac showed up just behind the two of them before they could say 'hello' to anyone, and Harry wasn't yet anywhere to be seen, likely not coming. Melinda Bobbin came in, as well, and Ella let go of her arm and went to kiss Blaise on the cheek in greeting, who then seemed to give Hermione a very nasty look indeed.

"Granger, you're looking well," said Cormac, who seemed to have slither in right as Ella left Hermione's side. "That cardigan looks...soft." He brushed her arm with his knuckle.

"Heh, yes—oh, what's that? Coming, Neville!" Hermione dashed quickly over to Neville's side, who smiled widely at her.

"Hello, Hermione," he piped. "I can't believe I'm here!" he whispered.

"Nonsense, you're a herbological genius, Neville," insisted Hermione, taking his arm. "Is Professor Slughorn anywhere?"

"He's seeing to dinner. He'll be right back." He looked over to the table. "The table's got namecards on them. We're sitting just over there. I'm sandwiched between you and Hestia Carrow... But Ella's sitting across from me! _Right_ across..." He looked over. "Are those...heliotropes in her hair?" His voice fell a bit. Hermione frowned.

"Do you not like heliotropes, Neville?" Professor Slughorn came out and all became rather loud and jovial, as the others conglomerated to greet him.

A wince formed on his pale face. "They're...from Malfoy, aren't they?"

It seemed cruel to say 'yes,' but Hermione didn't want to lie to him. It was best to be honest; Neville was far too good of a person to even be _remotely_ interested in such a devious little snake like Ella Zamora. "Nevermind, Neville. You can get a girl that's worth ten of her."

He sighed through his nose. "Heliotropes mean 'devotion.'" Neville then puffed his chest in resolve. "I'm worth ten of _you_ , Malfoy," he then whispered, likely to himself, not likely meaning for Hermione to hear it. He took in a deep breath and marched straight over to Ella, tapped her on the shoulder, and said—with a bit of a squeak in his voice—"Ella, you look very nice tonight."

"Thank you, Neville!" Hermione heard her say in a grossly honeyed tone. "I'm so glad you were asked to come." She was so sure that were she to roll her eyes any harder, she'd see the front of her brain.

"Miss Granger!" Near-shouted Professor Slughorn. "What a delight that you could make it—do come in! We're just about to sit down. Everyone, be seated, please! Find your seats!"

Blaise went over to the chairs, as did Ella, along with the rest of the guests. Hermione found herself seated all at the far side of the round table, between Neville and Melinda Bobbin. Professor Slughorn smiled and found his seat, and waited for everyone to get to their chairs.

"Good evening to all of you!" he greeted. "I'd like to thank you all for joining me; you are all a quite extraordinary, crowning set of jewels, and I'm pleased to dine with you. Please, be seated!" Blaise Zabini pulled out the chair for Ella, who was seated between him and Marcus Belby, a seventh-year Ravenclaw. Neville quickly moved, just then to pull out the chair for Hermione to sit, likely in an attempt to show off, considering how he puffed up his chest, and Hermione couldn't help but feel sick to her stomach at the thought of Neville _actually_ fancying her. They all sat, and the soup course appeared before them. "We'll be starting with a lobster bisque."

"Lobster is my favorite, sir!" said Ella, smiling.

"So I've been told, Miss Zamora!" he said with a glint in his eye. " _Bon apetit!"_ Hermione looked down at her bowl, which was filled with a creamy orange liquid, topped with a buttered lobster claw and some gold leaf. "Now, Miss Zamora," Slughorn began. "Last year you competed in the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship for Ilvermorny at the end of the school year in '95?"

"Oh, no, Professor—last year, I _won_ the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship for Ilvermorny at the end of the school year in '95."

Professor Slughorn laughed, and so did the other Slytherins as they supped on the lobster bisque, Hermione rolling her eyes inwardly. "I wasn't able to attend, unfortunately, but I hear that you overcame quite a bit during the competition!" Professor Slughorn addressed the table. "For those of you who don't know, the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship is held every seven years. Unfortunately, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts didn't compete—because of the Triwizard Tournament."

"I have to admit that I was afraid I'd lose to Mila. She was _insanely_ good!"

"Who was Mila?" asked Blaise.

"Mila Sokolov, the student from Koldovstoretz," answered Ella. "Her elder sister, Olga, was the champion from the previous competition, so I knew that she was the one to look out for."

"Ah, yes, the Russian wizarding school!"said Professor Slughorn. "For those of you that don't know, the Russian wizards play a version of Quidditch in which they play on uprooted young trees instead of broomsticks!"

"It's true—it was almost scary to see it up close," commented Zamora. "I think I was the underdog, though, considering Kuranosuke Bakugo from Mahoutokoro was the favorite. But Mila was amazing! I wish you could have all seen; I'm sure it wasn't _as_ exciting as the TriWizard Tournament, but a lot more people got to be in this one than just the three. I was honestly afraid that it was going to be cancelled because of the timing, but my father and the MACUSA pushed for me to compete! The whole commencement ceremony for the Championship was great, though! There was a big parade and everything. And when I won, I was chosen for the EWEs."

"EWEs?" Neville then asked, likely in an attempt to get her to look at him, which she did, with a smile.

"'Extraordinary Witch Exchange,'" she answered.

"I take it that's the program you've used to come to Hogwarts?" asked Professor Slughorn, who slurped the last of his lobster bisque. Zamora nodded, following suit with the other Slytherins, who then all put down their spoons when Professor Slughorn did. Hermione copied, and the courses were vanished. A salad of greens and candied walnuts came next, and they began to eat when Slughorn did. "I must confess, I've never heard of it!"

"It's only for witches, sir," said Zamora with all too wry of a grin. "A sacred sisterhood! You have to be quite something to get in, and if you do, you're almost guaranteed to be set for life. My grandmother, for example, was selected to be a EWE, and to do an exchange from Beauxbatons to Mahoutokoro in her sixth year, and now she owns a monopoly of hotels and casinos in Monaco."

"Ah, yes—Zamora's grandmother, Helene Christophe, is the last of the oldest Monegasque magical line in the province," he explained. "A war hero, I hear, as well." Zamora nodded. "And you live with her over the summers?" She nodded again, smiling. "Well, be sure to give her my best!" The hairs on the back of the young Gryffindor's neck stood up at the name 'Christophe.' _That blasted curse_ _of hers_ —so _unbelievably irresponsible to give such a gift to_ such _a maniac!_

"Of course, sir!"

"If it's only for witches," Hermione began, a bit of a sneer in her voice. "Why haven't any of us at Hogwarts heard of it?" _She's a spy for the MACUSA and I'm going to prove it,_ she thought.

Zamora shrugged. "The schools only hear of it if they have witches which meet their standards, silly," she answered sweetly, causing Zabini to snicker, along with the other Slytherins that were there. Hermione felt herself shrink into the chair; Neville, in an uncommonly emotionally sensitive gesture, squeezed her hand as he ate his salad. She realized that if she was chosen by MACUSA to spy for some reason, which she _was_ , she wasn't going to give it up easily; nevertheless, Hermione was going to persist.

"Don't," whispered Melinda, who was wearing a bit too much perfume for Hermione's liking. "You're not going to get anywhere by picking a fight with her." Hermione snorted and shoved in a mouthful of salad in defiance. "Better to join than beat." _Typical Slytherin Pureblooded mentality..._

"Ella hosted a wonderful Bastille Day party at Chateau Christophe, which is their ancestral home on the Monegasque coast," mentioned Hestia Carrow. "The house is quite lovely, with a spectacular view of the Mediterranean." Neville's face suddenly went a queer sort of red, and so did Ella's when they made eye contact. She quickly laughed it off and sipped her water.

"Ah, there's nothing like a summer soiree! Back when I was a young lad..." Professor Slughorn began to tell a tale of his post-graduate days, but the more Ella chewed her salad, the more Hermione was determined to knock her off that high horse of hers, once and for all.

* * *

Huh. That's a weird interaction, isn't it? Neville and Ella? I wonder what happened at that party...? Maybe it'll explain why Neville's all cray-cray for our favorite American and determined to steal her away from Draco? Also, we get a little more context to what the hell Ella's dance studio is: a workshop for the Mason bloodline that Ella's converted. There's tons of tools and neat stuff down there, as she comes from a _long_ line of builders and magical architects!

So, we know that it's October 2nd, and Ella knows that Draco's a werewolf. I'm kind of jumping here and there in continuity between the book and movie, as we know that Hermione is at the Slug Club dinners first in the books and keeps on pressing Harry to attend with her...it's still early in the school year, so Harry won't get to the Slug Club dinners until just after the snowman building contest on the first winter's snow.

This was my first chapter for Hermione, and boy oh boy was it fun! Sure, she's showing her nastier side here, but let's be honest: Hermione is a cutthroat witch that you'd apparate to goddamn NEPTUNE to get away from if she was after you. They'll become friends soon, you just won't know quite HOW for another couple of chapters...but you will know soon. Promise. Also, I know it's gross, but you can't imagine how fun it was for me to look up/think up metaphors for getting your period that a witch might use. I'm not kidding—I literally busted out laughing when I thought of the phrase "the basement vampire".

Big thanks to SabrinaJasmine, PancakeStack, and HeartofAspen as always, my faithful readers/reviewers!


	27. Chapter 27

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 21**

* * *

"Have you ever woken up and forgotten who you are?"

"What?"

"Not forgotten entirely...maybe just become aware of the fact that you aren't awake enough yet to realize that you're you?"

There was a very long pause for deep consideration. "Maybe I have."

"It's kind of like a stillness. Almost like a moment where I think that, hey, this is who I am, before any sort of societal pressures or external forces were placed upon me, the moment where I'm conscious but not fully aware." There was another long pause. The clock struck midnight, and each chime rang through the corridor below and flew up the air by way of the staircase, creeping beneath the closed door of the bedroom. Ella looked to her right, and Draco's head was still there on the other pillow, after the last chime. He didn't turn into a pumpkin and disappear forever. His pale skin was glowing beautifully in the light of the waxing moon. She brushed his cheek, whiskered from not shaving; he reached up and laced his fingers with hers.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered.

Ella blinked. "Did you read my mind?"

His expression was unreadable. "Do you like those moments when you forget?"

She shrugged against the satin of her sheets. "I don't _dislike_ them," she answered. "But I'm not sure if I like them, either. I do look for them, though, and think about them here and there. I've never been in that moment long enough to realize if I like it or not."

"There must be something about them that you like." A beat. "Perhaps the feeling of no obligation?"

"That's likely," she agreed. "Maybe I just wish that I could get to them at will? Find those moments where nothing matters?"

"You can go into that Mind Palace of yours when you want," he said with a tiny laugh. "Maybe one of those rooms has that feeling in it?" Part of her wanted to poke him in the ribs for making fun of her Mind Palace, but the other parts of her were truthfully tickled that he remembered that she even had a Mind Palace, or even what one was that she didn't mind it. He must have seen her smile in the dark room, for his hand let go of hers and his long arm came and snaked around her waist, sliding her towards and against his naked body. A sharp chill went up her legs and she let out a squeal.

"How are your feet so cold?!" she gasped and turned around, wrapping his arm over her to spoon her from behind, tucking both of her feet between his ankles. He laughed softly and kissed the junction of her shoulder and neck. She felt his lungs swell as he inhaled the scent of her hair; she could tell that he liked her new shampoo with how he sighed into her ear. His long fingers came up and grazed over her scalp, through her hair, then kissed her ear again.

"Sleep, darling," he whispered.

"You don't have to stay awake until I fall asleep, you know," she said, patting the top of his hand with her fingertips.

"I know, but I love the feeling of it," he cooed softly in her ear. "I like feeling you fall asleep in my arms; feeling you relax and go limp, your breathing slow." He kissed the junction of her jaw and neck. "I love it when you're sleeping in my arms, and turn over and reposition yourself against me and sigh. It's a bit like the sea, and listening to the waves gently kiss the shore."

 _He just had to be a poet, didn't he?_ Ella reminded herself that there were many girls out there that would give their left eye to have someone so poetic and romantic and loving in their bed. "You've written me a lot of poems over the years," she mused quietly. He nodded, his lips curling into a smile against her scalp.

"Several hundred, at this point," he agreed.

 _Sweet Jesus, I think he's actually right,_ she thought, recalling all of his love notes from school, the owls she'd received from him over the years, not counting the lyrics to the songs he'd written."Recite me one," she said, deciding to accept a tiny bit of romance into her American, romance-intolerant diet. Perhaps if she ingested a bit at a time, every once in awhile, she'd learn to not wretch when an excess of it came.

"Which one?" Ella had given back every single poem he'd written her when they'd broken up in their sixth year, but the ones sealed in owl after owl after owl were still sitting, mostly-unread, in a shoe box in her closet. She didn't want to admit that most of them were a mystery to her.

"The one about my freckles," she said, taking the a safest guess she could.

"That doesn't narrow it down. Each of your freckles happen to be a separate muse for me, beckoning me to write and compose. They appear to me as notes on a sheet of music, appearing in eighths or sixteenths, flying up and down."

Ella rolled her eyes with a grin, suppressing the inherited cynicism of a ninety years of New Yorkers. "Isn't there one of the freckle poems with stars in it?" He inhaled deeply and squeezed her tight. He recited quietly into her hair.

"'Drops of rain, akin to spattered summer  
Upon the pavement, or are they just a sea  
Of stars in a hundred shades of brown?  
Sprays of baby's breath, the yellow-speckled  
Yarrow's bloom, against a meadow, curled,  
With ebon clouds, in skies turned upside-down.'"

"Oh my God, you used iambic pentameter," she muttered to herself, shaking a bit with laughter. His arm went out as he gestured the rest of the poem, now reciting loudly and clearly into the canopy of her bed curtains.

"'A countless count of constellations form  
On blushing cheeks, across the galaxy  
That is your skin, your caramel-colored nose,  
A breath of joy, exuberance, all red -  
Oh, how the lilting song does seem to dance,  
With every laugh you laugh, my freckled glimmerrose.'"

"OH MY GOD, DRACO I AM AN AMERICAN." He laughed out loud, the hardest he'd laughed all week. She reached over and smacked him hard in the face with a pillow, which only caused him to laugh more. Draco then jumped straight up and knocked her with his own pillow, causing the goosedown to burst out and go everywhere, flying all over like Christmas snow. " _Wow_ —you are strong!" Draco was laughing too hard to apologize for ruining her things, but Ella retrieved her wand from the nightstand and—with a flick—mended the pillow and sent everything back into its place. She hated to admit how handsome he was when he smiled, all gorgeous white teeth. He sighed happily.

"I love you," he said.

"Thank you," said Ella, obviously not ready to say anything back yet. His eyebrows tilted up, his face a bit crestfallen. "Don't rush me," she snapped.

He sighed through his nose. "Ella, it's been five years."

"You're speaking as if we've been together for five years straight."

"Well, no, I suppose that we haven't—"

"—Then you have no right to expect anything of me." His jaw tightened and he looked away. Her chest swelled in anger. "It took you a _year_ to kiss me! Y-You didn't even kiss me, you just—attacked me!" He shot her a tired look.

"This is different," he said simply. He then sat up straight and swung the covers off his half of the bed. He took his wand and accio'd his clothes from the drawer. Ella's jaw tightened, and she flicked her wand to send them back and put away. Draco snapped his head around, incredulous. "What are you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing?!" A beat. "Get back in this bed." He frowned. "Please?" she then asked, a little more softly and more timid. When he didn't seem to budge, she threw the covers off her own body to reveal her nakedness beneath. His eyes widened, and she saw the internal struggle between his emotional resolve and his newly discovered sex drive, which was—frankly—phenomenally sensational. She saw his Adam's apple move up and down as he gulped. "Come back in this bed and warm me up," she beckoned, smiling. "It's cold in here."

"Oh, who am I kidding?" he sighed to himself, rolling his pale eyes. The mattress creaked when he crawled back in, pulling the covers over both of them and coming close. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and kissed his shoulder. His long arms snaked around her shoulders and held her tight. She truthfully didn't know what to say next, or what to do. It had been over two weeks since the last full moon, and since he'd officially called off the wedding to Astoria. She still wasn't sure why Hermione hadn't brought up the whole thing, but she hadn't. Perhaps she was still hoping that Ella would get back together with Neville? Either way, the night she was over for dinner marked the same night that she decided to _not_ owl Viktor Krum and instead send word to Draco's hotel. He showed up on her doorstep and hadn't left since.

Ella laid silently, feeling his heart pound through his chest against hers. The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, The New York Ghost's page Seven—all of them were buzzing about the trial and the scandal that was going on between them, and she didn't even want to _think_ about the slander that was going on about poor Astoria's family. How the curse on the Greengrass's was even discovered was beyond Ella—it's not like she'd ever told Daddy about it—but there it was, black and white, all over every possibly wizarding publication known to man:

"Draco Malfoy Calls off Engagement to Greengrass Heiress", "A Curse on All Your Houses, the Darkness of Blood Purity", "The Grass isn't so Green; Astoria Barren, Jilted at the Altar."

How the hell it was found out was beyond her, but Ella's father had dragged the Greengrass's name through the mud, and even convinced them to pay the Malfoys a fine for causing them so much trouble, for lying about the fact that their family was cursed from the beginning. She frankly couldn't believe that her father was willing to take them to court for the whole thing, but they paid a settlement and the contract of their engagement was ripped up and seen as invalid because of it. There wasn't going to be any sort of penalty for him; it was as if nothing ever happened, even though the fate of an entire family—including one of Ella's dearest friends—had been ruined forever. Daphne would never forgive her...not that she'd expect to ever be forgiven.

"Draco?"

He pulled away to look at her. She struggled to find the words that she wanted to say. He kissed her instead, gently at first, then harder; a pleasurable shiver went up her spine. She felt him smile and he backed up just enough to look her in the eyes. His spindly fingers curled through her hair.

"How did my father find out about the Greengrasses?" she asked when he pulled away.

His bony shoulders shrugged. "I can't be sure. He just said he did some digging." He didn't seem to want to talk about it, but he didn't seem especially uneasy at the same time.

Ella's head hit the pillow and she stared off into space. "He really seems to like you, doesn't he?"

Draco smiled, or at least Ella felt him smile from the corner of her eye. "I expect I'd know if he didn't." He squeezed her hand. "I like him, too." She turned her head and smiled at him.

"I'm glad he does."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said. "My father's important to me."

"You're important to him." A beat. "You are very, _very_ important to him." She narrowed her eyes a bit, wondering what he'd meant by that. He took her hand in his and kissed it. _Damn, he really loves me,_ she thought to herself as she looked into his eyes. _This sucks._

"I need to tell you something," she said quietly. He frowned. "I..." She gulped, unsure if the Fidelus charm would allow her to say it. "It's possibly a secret that I'm not allowed to say." Ella paused, then puffed her bangs off her forehead. "Okay. I don't know how to say it, so I'm just going to blurt it out."

"Darling, just tell me."

She sat up and bit him sit up straight; she faced him and closed her eyes, then took in a deep breath through her nose. "The Christophes are the family that cursed the Greengrass's long ago." She couldn't bring herself to open her eyes to see his face. Her brow wrinkled as she continued. "There's a box on my grandmother's mantle. Every newborn of the Christophe line has their finger pricked and offers a drop of blood into the red velvet of the box...and if they're not a real Christophe, by some virtue—or lack thereof, usually—they're cursed...cursed so that their family tree will be a barren one." Ella's chest tightened, and felt as if it would collapse. She began to shake, sure that this would be the real nail in the coffin, and that everything would crumble around her, and that it would be her own fault, like always. Every decision she'd ever made turned out to be horribly wrong; the decision to tell him this wouldn't be any different. She'd tell herself that it was because her feelings told her to, but her feelings were—historically—wrong and caused a great amount of anguish for all of those involved. "It's this horrible kind of blood magic that goes beyond pureblood fanaticism, and _straight_ into fucking insanity. The Greengrass's are a descendant of a family that we cursed. That's why I said that Astoria couldn't handle you leaving last August. I know that curses like that only come up every other generation or so, but it's a curse nonetheless." She gulped. "I'm sorry."

Part of her wondered if it all _was_ in fact a secret kept via the _Fidelus_ charm and that—in an attempt to do right and come clean about something—she'd had a brain aneurysm and died, and this was the moment before Lucifer Morningstar took her to the afterlife so that she could be in Hell with a clean conscience for _one_ person. Let's face it; if she were to die, right at this moment, she'd be in Hell for sure. She was guilty of vanity, of envy, of wrath, of lust...oh my god, _so_ much lust. The sheer amount of sex she and Draco had been having in the passed two weeks were honestly mind-boggling, and yet somehow it was still _just_ as satisfying and amazing as the first time. She expected it to die down in excitement and just let it go through the motions and die down naturally, like how most relationships went, but it just didn't. It was still goosebump-giving, headrush-rushing, toe-curling sex that was so good she felt like her clitoris had turned into a shooting star. _You're_ _thinking about sex right_ now _? What? What is_ wrong _with you, you nasty cow?!_

Ella couldn't bear the silence anymore, so she opened one eye to look at his face. He looked crestfallen, but not angry or disgusted, or anything she had been expecting. Draco gulped, then looked away and sighed through his nose.

"I see..." he said. He licked his lips.

"I'm really sorry," Ella insisted. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"It's not your fault," stated Draco with a shrug of his bony shoulders.

"What?" she balked. "How can you be so nonchalant? My family _ruined_ this poor girl's life—"

"—Do you know how many lives _my_ family has ruined?" he asked, turning to look her square in the eye. "Any idea how many died because my family was greedy and cunning and ruinous? You have some old great-grandparent to blame; you don't have your father. You don't have anyone in your direct memory that could lay claim to genocide." There was a very long pause as Ella realized that he was possibly the best person in the world to talk to about this.

"Oh." He was right. There was not a single shred of evidence that he would be the wrong person to understand what was going on inside her head. Something clicked, and a familiar scent of movie popcorn and white violets came from...somewhere. There was a rush, the smell of cigars, possibly from Draco's suit jacket, which had been flung on the dresser. She knew that he didn't smoke, after all, but he had spent an awful lot of time around her father, who did. Ella felt...moved, and she didn't quite know what to say next.

"My darling," began Draco, who then turned to face her and took her hand in both of his. "You cannot be the one of us to harbor such guilt, you don't have the constitution." She cringed a little, feeling almost a little insulted. "Between the two of us, _I_ must be the one to shoulder the responsibility of horrific familial pasts because the Malfoys have about eleven centuries of such. You, my love, _care_ too much. You have a giant heart and a deep well of emotion from which you draw compassion and empathy. I, however, have the capacity to shut it down entirely, swallow and bury any ill-feelings that may ever come, and one day I shall die."

"Dude, you _can't_ be okay with that—"

"—I _can_ and I _am_ 'okay with that,' darling." He took her hand and pressed her palm upon his bare chest. "Allow me my own penance, my Catholic lamb, and let me be the lightning rod that draws in from the storm of your caring heart."

"Uh... I don't know if I can...trust anybody that much."

"Mmm," grumbled Draco, looking down a bit, pursing his lips in thought. "I, too, have problems trusting." He looked up. "That being said, I'm willing to try."

"Really?" gasped Ella. He nodded with a sincere grin. "I mean... _really_? After everything we've been through and done with and _to_ each other, you're honestly willing to trust... _me_?" Draco nodded again, smiling wider. "Wha—? _Why_?"

He shrugged. "I suppose I have nothing left to lose except for you," he said. "You see, I've realized something: I can lose quite a bit and still survive. I'm phenomenally resourceful. Life is short. The one thing I'm truly afraid of at this point is dying without being with you."

Ella's brow furrowed in concern; she didn't like the way he was speaking, not at all. It must have been the trial and all of the stress that was causing him to act so oddly. She then came upon a realization. "Are you afraid of being killed?" He looked away and closed his eyes, pained. Her heart cracked straight in half with the realization that he was acting out of fear for his own mortality. _He_ must _be manifesting his grief in this kind of behavior; poor thing!_ "Oh, _papi_ , listen—you're safe! This killer is going to be caught and they're going to rot in Azkaban for the rest of their days." Her arms quickly snaked around his waist and she held him tight as she could. "Nothing's going to harm you, not while I'm around." Draco felt stiff in har arms, and then sighed and wrapped his long arms around her in a tight embrace. "I'm not afraid to throw myself into danger for those I care for." He stiffened again and held her tighter, and his breath began to quiver.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," he whispered in horror, and Ella felt tears dropping on her naked shoulder.

" _Papi,_ " she whispered in the most-soothing voice she could. "I promise you that nothing bad is going to happen to me."

"You can't promise that," he sobbed, shaking. Ella gripped him to her tightly, feeling unsure, just deciding to let him cry. She remembered what it was like when her own mother died, and the more and more time passed, she realized that she and Draco were more alike than she was ever willing to admit, even though she was quietly admitting it to herself now.

It was true, though; you _couldn't_ promise something that you couldn't control. You can't control when you'll die, nor can you control how the world will choose to be around you. You can't choose your fate. It all sometimes seemed hopeless, pointless to even try. Just because the world was hopeless, however, didn't mean you couldn't have a little fun along the way. Didn't the Bible say something about forgetting times of prosperity in times of famine? Or was it forgetting about famine in times of prosperity? Ella was dealing with a great deal of prosperity before the murder of Draco's father, and it all seemed so far away, now.

She recalled Percy and being with him, with it all feeling so...different and grown-up. There wasn't any puppy-dog eyes or silly giggle-fits with him. Everything with him felt mature, like it was two adults making the decision to be together. Did she want that, though? Was there a love that she wanted in particular? She hadn't thought about it much. She supposed that she purposefully avoided the thought of real relationships because she disliked how it made her classmates and friends speak, as if it was the end-all, be-all. Part of her wanted the happily ever after, but another part of her was too jaded to even think that it was remotely a possibility. Everyone dies, everyone leaves everyone behind, in ruin. Too many parts of her were thinking: what's the point?

"I want to be with you for as long as I can be," came Draco's voice. "I'm done with making the wrong choices." Ella felt her heart squeeze under a strange pressure, almost as if it were about to crack. "I'm not being afraid anymore. I'm choosing us." Her vision blurred, and her cheeks felt hot, beginning to sting her eyes. He pulled away and held her face with both of his hands. "Ella. I am choosing us. Do you understand?"

 _Honestly, no_.

"I am staying. I have seen your triumphs and your pitfalls, your great joy and your anger and resentment and what it can do. I've felt your wrath and felt your love. It's not that I'm overlooking your bad temper or the fact that you're obsessive or unbelievably annoying, it's that I love _all_ of you, enough to say that the whole is far more important than the parts. I accept your demons because you accept mine. You are willing to accept and live with the worst of me, so why in the world shouldn't I do the same thing for you? The love I feel for you is not this happy-lovey-dovey fairy-tale love, but the kind of love decides to work for it. I admit that I'm not accustomed to hard work the way you are, but that doesn't mean I can't make the effort to love you every day. I swear to you that I will never stop trying, never stop working for your love, to never forget to cherish you."

"I..."

"Do you believe me?"

Ella frowned, and paused to think for a very long time. "It's just..." She sighed through her nose. "You're saying so much and..." She shook her head again. "Would _you_ believe you?"

Draco scoffed a bit. "I suppose I wouldn't, no." He sniffed a tear back and smiled. "I suppose you think it's selfish of me to ask you to trust me again."

"Among other things," she admitted. "Then again, I can't deny that I..." She looked away, smiling. "I can't deny that I've kind of... _like_ having you here." She glanced back at him, watching a real smile creep on his face, his gorgeous gray eyes light up with joy. "I..." Ella gulped, trying hard to find the exact right words. "I really like coming home and finding that you're here. Or me being home and you coming. I..." She laughed. "You're like the best roommate ever; you keep clean, you don't hog the covers, and the sex is honestly phenomenal. I can't believe I'm saying this—and, like, I _know_ it's only been two weeks—but I really like you staying here."

He squeezed her hand. "I like me staying here, too." He meant to say so much more than that, but the fact that he was willing to be quiet over it and be patient meant quite a bit to her. Ella puffed a sigh through her lips.

"Get dressed. We're going somewhere."

Draco frowned. "But it's in the middle of the night," he protested.

Ella flipped the covers off her naked body and accio'd a simple gray tea-length skirt and a white tank top. "If we don't go now, then I might lose my nerve." She chose a pair of sandals. "Now hurry." Confused, Draco quickly dressed, or as quickly as one _can_ dress when you wear a suit everywhere, tie and all, and decide to comb your hair to be impeccable. It took nearly 20 minutes to get out of the house, but once they did, they found themselves apparating in London, just outside of Clerkenwell, off Bowling Green Lane.

"What are we doing here?" demanded Draco. Ella snaked her arm through his and walked, with conviction, to the Tall Brother's Locksmith, its neon 24-hour sign glowing bright orange. The electric ping of the store only made the yellowish fluorescent lights seem somehow less...fake. It was just like in the movies, just as it should be, with its grimy linoleum floor and pasty, pasty clerk. "Ella?"

She sorted for the right key on the ring. "I'd like a copy of this one, please?"

"Sure," said the clerk, the sound of her chewing gum making an awful smacking sound, which obviously offended Draco very much. He looked so out of place, such an extraordinary being in such a rather ordinary place. He didn't let it show _too_ much, even when the key was being cut. The machine was so loud, but Ella liked watching.

"3.75, miss." She handed over her credit card, which the clerk swiped, then handed over the keys, which were still quite warm from the machine. Ella turned to a very confused-looking Draco. She pocketed the original key and held the copy up to the light. A knot was forming in her stomach, but time was ticking and if she didn't make _some_ sort of effort...

Ella took his hand, held out the key and dropped to one knee.

"Ella!" he gasped, looking rather panicked.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy—"

"—Ella, _I'm_ supposed to be the one to ask you this—!"

"—Shut _up_ and let me get on with it!"

"Aw, c'mon, sausage, let 'er do it—it's 2001!" cried the clerk, who was quite clearly enamored with the scene set.

"But Ella—!"

"—Draco Lucius Malfoy, with this clerk as our witness, will you please accept this key to my house as a token of my... _affection_ and commitment to you?" He blinked, obviously not expecting what had just occurred.

"Oh. Erm."

Her heart began to beat wildly. This was obviously not the most-romantic setting, and it was obviously not the most ideal situation for either of them to be in. In fact, it was the likely one of the worst ideas ever; the last thing he needed to be doing was moving in with her during the most-scandalous trial of the century. Lord only knows what her grandmother would do should she have seen what was going on. Still...

"I'm still kneeling, here."

"You...want me to move in with you?"

"I want you to have a key to my house so you can come and go whenever you please to. I'm opening up my home and my self to you, in the only gesture I'm currently willing to commit to in this moment, all things considered. So? Yes, or no?"

"This..." He smiled, a flush coming to his pale cheeks. "Isn't quite what I expected."

"I know it's not romance in the way you like it. But this is who I am and if we're going to push forward and be together in any stretch of the imagination, then I need you to accept me for me, a romance-intolerant American who is possibly a sociopathic narcissist. I just don't have the poetic bones that you have, or the brilliant and beautiful mind. I'm the practical one between us. And if you want flowery romance _from_ your lover then I'm afraid you should look somewhere else, or at least exercise enough patience for me to learn it... But if you want to stay, because you like _me_ , I'm giving you this key because I like _you_." He laughed, tears of joy welling in his eyes. "So? Whaddaya say?" She shook the key at him. "You and me?"

"Yes," he laughed. "Yes, of course I accept. You and me, always!" Ella jumped up into his arms and wrapped them tight around him, and Draco did the same. He hugged her so tight that every bit of insecurity and anger she'd ever felt slipped away, for just a moment. He pulled away just enough to kiss her; he _must_ be happy, for he'd never kiss her in front of a stranger like that, especially a No-Maj. A fluttering of butterflies filled in her stomach, and when he took the key, she felt a certain sense of accomplishment, a blissful sense of belonging. She sighed in relief.

"Good. Okay." She felt a cloud of silver dust fill her lungs, a lightness fill her being. She smiled and squeezed Draco's hands. "Come on. I'm hungry."

"Hungry?" balked Draco. "It's after midnight!"

"Augh, Draco!" groaned Ella. "Do you know what would make me happy? I mean, really, _really_ , unspeakably happy?" She stomped over to the door, gesturing rather loudly. "I wanna go on an actual date with you. I wanna get burgers and a milkshake with you. I wanna go to the movies. I want to do _normal_ boyfriend-girlfriend things together. I want to be normal! Let's be normal for a night! Come _on_! There's an American diner just a few blocks from here, and they've got vinyl booths and milkshakes in tall frosty glasses with whipped cream—wouldn't you just _kill_ a real American cheeseburger?"

He paused and considered, open-mouthed. He then shrugged and said: "If it would make you happy—"

"—It would make me _ecstatic_." She opened the door. "Come on. Let's have an adventure tonight." She didn't wait for him to follow, but follow he did, and a mere two blocks away was Joe's, Ella's favorite diner. It reminded her so much of New York City, with its neon lights and squeaky booths and strong coffee instead of tea. The burgers were always thick and the tomatoes were always cut really thick, which was exactly as Ella liked it. When the server came, Ella didn't even bother with the menu, for she already knew what she'd wanted, and suggested that she be the one to order for them to; he shrugged and said 'why not'.

When the burgers, fries, and milkshakes—vanilla for him, strawberry for her—came, Ella applauded the server. She felt a bit of a tickle as he peeked into her mind, but he quickly withdrew as he picked up the burger, dripping with juice, and took a bite. Draco laughed.

"You're in a good mood," he said when he was halfway through his burger and wholly finished with his fries.

"Because I'm happy," she answered, everything outside of herself gleefully locked on the other side of those diner windows. London was such a fun town; it wasn't quite NYC, but she really did like it.

"So?" She looked up from her milkshake. "Does this mean you'll marry me?" Ella was shocked that she didn't choke. He'd been talking about marriage to her for such a long time she almost felt numb to it a this point. She always did want to get married, but she imagined that it would have been under better circumstances, and she never imagined she'd marry a guy like Draco. Then again, life doesn't always go the way you plan, and it's the beautiful ride of it that makes it so much fun. She stirred the shake with her straw.

"I think I will, _eventually_."

His white teeth outshone the passing lights in the street. "I'll take an 'eventually.'"

"Good, because it's the best you're getting right now."

"You know..." He said, fiddling with the limp lettuce on the plate. "You always find ways to surprise me. I imagine that life with you in the future will never be boring."

"I don't intend to have a boring life." He smiled. "Soon as I cure—" the server walked by "—you-know-what, I plan on travelling. I'm going to travel _all_ over the world and discover new things, see new places and meet new people." She took a bite of her burger. "The world is so big. Don't you think?"

"Travelling could be fun," he agreed.

"You never planned on it?"

"I don't know. Being a Malfoy has a lot of responsibility tied to it."

"But what if you didn't have that?" He frowned. "Like, what would you do if you _didn't_ have any responsibilities? What would you do?" He obviously hadn't ever considered that, not seriously at least. The responsibilities of his legacy were so deeply ingrained into his character that questioning it wasn't something he easily did. "I always thought you should go out for professional Quidditch." He looked up, frowning in surprise. "I always thought you were great," she continued. "And I loved watching you."

Draco quickly shook his head. "I'm not good enough to play in the pros."

"Says who?" He silently sipped his milkshake. "Blaise is playing for the Tornadoes next season. You should try out for Seeker. Even if you're second-string, you're still on."

"That's..." Draco shook his head with a grin. "It's not for me anymore. I ought to look forward and continue my work at the Ministry."

"Do you enjoy your work at the Ministry?"

"At this moment, the only thing I enjoy is being with you." The sip-sip-sipping sound of the empty milkshake glass popped in the straw she was sucking on. When she glanced at the clock on the wall, she noticed it was a quarter-passed one. She realized that this was likely not the most-sensible idea, considering that they both had to be at Wizengamot at 9 am, sharp. The fact of the matter was, though, that she had gotten so caught up in the adrenaline of everything had turned off the sensible part of her brain.

"Are you ready to go home?" His eyebrows raised with a grin at the word 'home.'

"I'd love to go home."

* * *

"Okay, you ready?"

"Ready."

Draco took in a breath and stuck the key in the lock of Ella's front door, and turned, and the lock clicked with ease. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. Before Ella could make a joke or comment, he swept her up in his arms and carried her over the threshold. He was so much stronger than the scrawny sixteen-year-old that she remembered being held in her arms. She remembered his bony shoulders and slight frame, but the fact that he'd filled out so much over the last four years was a bit staggering. Muscles had formed on his chest and shoulders and legs, and feeling it between her legs was something that was so delicious she didn't care how wrong it was. He leaned in and kissed her as he carried her upstairs with ease, her fingers grazing through his fine silver hair as she kicked her sandals away in the hallway.

" _Ay, papi_..." she sighed as he set her down on the bed, their lips never leaving each other. She pushed his jacked off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. His mouth came away and turned to her cheek, then kissed all down her neck, down the space between her breasts, and then further down... Ella smiled, and when she opened her eyes she screamed—for her father was sitting at the vanity stool, watching. Draco jumped so far away she thought he might apparate. "Daddy!" she shrieked.

"Sir!" gasped Draco, his eyes going almost hilariously wide. "Ah-ahm, sir, it's not what it looks like—"

"Really? Because it looks like you were about to perform oral sex on my daughter."

"I-I _definitely_ wasn't about to do that—!" Draco protested, obviously more than mortified.

"Oh, no?" said Daddy, crossing and uncrossing his legs thoughtfully. "Because, you know, sex without oral is kind of...disrespectful, don't you think?"

"Wha?"

"Don't you care about my daughter's orgasm?"

"Ah— Er— I—"

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" Ella screamed.

"Making sure you both were asleep—which you obviously aren't. I came to check to see that you were in your bed by 12:15 am and you weren't. So? I waited."

"I am twenty-one years old!"

"I know."

"You can't just barge into my house like this!"

"I didn't barge, honey, I used my key." He jingled his key ring from his pocket. He then stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. "Now, then, since you're both going to testify tomorrow, I suggest you get some _sleep_." He looked between the two of them. "You—" he pointed at Draco "—will find yourself comfortable in the guest bedroom."

"Extremely comfortable, sir, I bid you goodnight!" Draco bowed, turned on his heel, and quickly strode out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Murder was on Ella's mind as she snarled and near-screamed when she was alone with her father.

"How DARE you—?!"

"Ella Xanthippe Zamora, is this a game to you?"

"What?"

"I said, 'is this a game to you?'" Her rage quelled. "It is passed one in the morning and there is a _murder_ trial going on—!"

"—I know—"

"—Oh, so you know? So you know that for me to check on my daughter the night before her testimony would—?"

"—Daddy, please—I am _so_ over this! I am _not_ a baby anymore!"

"No, you certainly aren't, which is why I wasn't checking on you _every_ night."

"You are being ridiculous."

"And _you_ are being irresponsible."

"I just wanted a burger!"

"At _midnight?_ With a _killer_ on the loose?!"

"It's not like Scourers are gonna get me!"

Daddy's face softened. "Is that what this is about?" he asked, his voice considerably lower. "Is that why you're being reckless?"

"I'm not being reckless! I wasn't alone—I was with Draco!"

"You mean one of the murder suspects—"

" _Chingada_ —?! He did _not_ murder his father!"

"And you know this for a fact?"

"Of course I do! Draco's a lot of things but a killer's not one of them—he writes me poetry about my freckles in iambic pentameter, for god's sake!"

"Did you _read_ Titus Andronicus or did you skip that one?"

"The point is that he doesn't have the stomach for murdering someone—he could barely _hug_ his father let alone poison him!"

"Be that as it may, he's _also_ at the center of a high-profile murder trial. If he's, in fact, _not_ the killer, then he's the next _biggest_ target—"

"—So it's _you_ that's been putting those ideas into his head?!" snapped Ella, jumping off the bed and standing straight up to her father. He squinted. "He's terrified to get killed—!"

"—Yeah, and I'm wondering why at least some of that isn't rubbing off on you—"

"—Oh, so you want me to be terrified for my life—?!"

"—I want you to be at least a _tiny_ bit aware of your own mortality, if not for your sake, then for mine, or for Draco's—or, y'know, all of those precious lycanthropes that depend on you?" Ella felt her face going a queer shade of purplish-red, her eyes stinging hot with tears. "This is _not_ a game. This is real. A person has lost their life. _Un hombre a muerto_. Someone else decided to stop the heart of another, and that is real. You are not immortal, do you understand?" The feeling of a thousand tiny bugs crawled under the skin on her shoulders, on her thighs. "You _have_ to be smart. You cannot spiral out of control like how you've been doing. I don't know what it is about this guy that makes you go completely insane—"

"—What is _that_ supposed to mean?!"

"—It means when was the last time you acted like this, ever, over a boy?"

"Well maybe I've never _felt_ this way about a boy before, you ever think of that?!" she screeched. " _Puta madre,_ Daddy, maybe I'm just enjoying my twenties! Huh?! Weren't you doing the same at my age?!"

"No, because at _your_ age, I was married, with a baby, and had just gotten promoted to junior partner. _Y tambien_ where the hell were you _sin tu sujetador_?" He gestured to her boobs.

"I said I was getting a burger!"

"Without a bra?" Ella nearly screamed in frustration. " _Escucha_ , _son las dos menos veinte;_ just go to sleep—"

"— _Porque?!_ "

"I raised you better than that."

* * *

What a long wait between chapters, I do admit!

So the trial is moving forward and so is Ella and Draco's relationship. When will we find out who the killer is? Soon. I've dropped a few hints here and there...

There are some Cursed Child spoilers in here, if you haven't read it! Astoria Greengrass's family has, in fact, been cursed which does come up every generation or so, and affects having children. In the book/play, she dies halfway through, leaving Draco to grieve. We never find out exactly how it happens or why, so I figured I'd take a little artistic license with it. Jeez, Ella feels horrible about it, though.

And poetry? Oh yeah. Draco is sensitive. You only get _that_ vindictive and _that_ vile with repression. Draco is gentle and creative and is happiest when he can express that freely. That being said, he's likely terrified. But what the heck is going on with _Meme_? Where is she? Do you think that she'd let Draco and Ella actually happen with everything that went on between them? What about her father? Ella's pretty much a strong, confident woman, but her familial support certainly means quite a lot to her. Of course, that doesn't mean rebelling doesn't happen, no matter how good your relationship is with your father.

A lot of things are going on in her head, and her behavior is, in fact, spiralling out of control. Will she continue to be reckless? Will the murder be solved? Stay tuned!


	28. Chapter 28

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 15**

* * *

" _You're not doing very well at this."_

"Buzz off, will you?"

" _The others are saying he's thinking of breaking up with you. You need to get close to him!"_

"Go bug someone else's ear, will you, you gnat?!"

"Ella?" She looked up to see Draco Malfoy looking at her, his pale eyebrows wiggling on his giant-ass forehead. "Were you just...talking to that hummingbird?" She quickly put on a honeyed smile and waved the bird away, which was _not_ actually a hummingbird, but an AWIB agent called Nels, who just happened to be able to turn into a hummingbird. In fact, many of the birds that surrounded her were AWIB agents. One was a cardinal, one was a magpie, one was a sparrow, and one was a hummingbird.

All four of them were bugging the bejeezus out of her, in addition to the hundreds of owls and the hundreds of thousands of other sorts of birds that dwelled in that damn forest next door. One might think that it'd be neat to be able to talk to birds, but here's the thing: it's _not_. It's _really_ annoying, and it was _almost_ as annoying as this Malfoy guy, with his nasal voice and his pasty, pasty skin. He was cute enough in the photographs, and even moreso when he smiled, but the second he opened his mouth and revealed what a horrible personality he had, his big dumb forehead got even bigger every time she saw him. She was actually glad that he hadn't tried kissing her yet; she was dreading that. _Thank goodness for deep-seated intimacy issues and a well-ingrained mentality from a toxic patriarchal society._

"Oh!" She laughed, imitating her mother's old chuckle whenever her father would be too serious about something. "Oh, no, I was just telling it to not bug me while I was studying." She stood up from the bench, smiling, giving the freak a bat of the eyelashes. "What's up?" He shifted uncomfortably.

"Walk with me," he said.

 _Oh god._ Ella knew that tone; it's the tone men get when they want to say something uncomfortable that they _knew_ you wouldn't like, and were bracing for a fight. "Always," she said, taking his arm, making sure to _accidentally_ touch the side of her breast to his arm through her sweater vest. His one saving grace was that he always smelled great. They walked together through the courtyard, the dappled autumn sun hailing the first signs of winter to come.

"Ella, listen," he began. "You do please me, some of the time." _What the hell?_ "However, it's quite clear that you're, frankly, just too annoying to be on my arm."

"What?" _Ella, be cool. Control your temper. You're on a job. This mission is important. I know he's a brat but act like you're in improv class or something. Burst into tears. Go ahead, it might work_ —

"Well, you _are_ rather entertaining to be around. You're...adventurous, but is that enough? It's quite clear we have nothing else in common, and I know nothing about you other than you seem to have some sort of affection for breaking the rules."

"'Affection for breaking the rules?' I think you just insulted me!" Ella snapped, ripping her arm away.

"I didn't mean to insult you—"

"—Yes you did! You called me annoying, and even worse you didn't bother to learn _anything_ about me when I actually made the effort to learn about you—stupid me, right?" She put her hands on her hips and adopted a very powerful stance. "I like you because you're brave, and quick to defend me against others. And I like you because you're smart, and well-read, and that you're actually a person that I can have a real conversation with!" _Oh man, look at that flicker in his eyes_ — _you've touched a nerve! Keep going!_ "Y'know, silly me for thinking that you'd be the one person in the whole school that understands what it's _really_ like to be from the kind of background I am—my mistake for thinking you were capable of any sort of _depth_." She whipped her head around and began to storm off, immediately pleased with herself at both telling him off _and_ getting a bullseye from shooting in the psychological dark.

"Hang on—! Hang on just a minute!" He grabbed her arm, hard—Ella, out of instinct, flapped herself away and transfigured back to her normal self, a few feet away, giving him an extremely incredulous look. She _did_ want to be followed, but how dare he grab at her? "Listen, just a minute here!" he said, his face rather red, now, as he pointed his bony finger at her. "I like you because you're fun, and you're funny, and you're dedicated to what you do, and you don't let me get away with stuff—"

"—Wait a sec—! So you like me, then?" she asked, staring up through her furrowed eyebrows.

"Of course I do!"

"And I like you back?"

"Apparently!" His tone was that of someone who was arguing, but his eyes looked rather confused.

Ella's mother's voice came into her mind, quipping about Geminis and their capriciousness, which added to her annoyance. "Then why are you picking a fight with me?" she demanded rather loudly, causing quite a few others to look their way. His face changed, and he looked as if he were about to give some sort of 'what will people say' reasoning, which was the logic of Old World Pureblooded families that Ella truly abhorred. She wasn't about to let him get those words out, so she snapped: "What is _wrong_ with you? Don't you know how to be happy?"

His face went white, and his eyes went wide and a bit out of focus, as if he'd just been knocked into the middle of next week. He looked so pitiful just then that Ella felt a tiny pang of remorse, which grew and grew, until she realized that he'd been so jarred by the question he couldn't even speak. She then heard the chirping and chattering of all of the birds, as well as the whispers of the students around the two of them. She then sighed a bit through her nose and came close to him.

"Hey, um, maybe we should talk about this later—" Her eye caught a glimpse of wild brown hair, peeking through the columns that held up the open walls of the courtyard's corridor. The birds all agreed; that cheeky little know-it-all was onto her, and the last thing she needed was for an outside force to jeopardize her mission. Her anger flared, and she felt overwhelmed with a combination of fury and panic. The mission was already going horribly, she hated this school and it's wretched uniforms, and the last thing she was going to do was let anybody else screw it all up worse than it was going. Chief Hudson was wrong about Ella; she wasn't best at listening and learning, she was best at kicking ass. A plot, quick as a hiccup, formed in her head, remembering how much Draco disliked that girl.

She jumped over the curb of pavement and sharply shoved Hermione Granger back against one of the columns. Gasps erupted all around her, and she shoved her face right up to hers and said, lowly: "I know you've been snooping around about me and if you don't get off my back, I am going to shove a box of fizzing whizbees up that tight asshole of yours."

Her jaw dropped in shock, and her eyes went wide. Harry and Ron were nearby and about to rush to her aid; if this was going to work, she'd need Hermione to exchange the first blow. _Okay_ — _No-Maj-born, bad temper, smart but with an inferiority complex; best to go for_ —

"Wannabe," she spat. Hermione dropped her books and whipped out her wand, causing a rather large deal of gasps. Her eyes were warning her; Ella could see the murder in her gaze, the anger, the attempt for self-rationalization. The American witch threw her head back and laughed as hard and as loud as she could muster, with a great deal of support from her diaphragm. "Oh, please! Do it. I dare ya. I double-dog dare ya!"

"HERMIONE, NO!" shouted Ron, who had just come up next to the two of them. "She's not worth it!" he pleaded. Harry was in the background, and Ella could see him in the corner of her eye.

"Listen to your boyfriend," she whispered with a defiant smirk and a quirk of an eyebrow, and the panic behind her eyes gave Ella a rush of sick pleasure, the kind you could only get by getting inside your opponent's head and twisting. "Go back to your books where you belong." Draco hated Hermione for whatever reason, and to take her down as the brightest witch at Hogwarts was hard, but not if she could factor dueling in.

"Hermione!" pleaded Ron, grabbing at her sleeve to pull her away. Enough of the rational part of her brain must have kicked in, for she slammed her fist down by her side and turned away in a huff. Ella couldn't let that happen.

"Told you she wasn't a real witch," gloated Ella to nobody in particular, which caused Hermione to turn-face-heel and throw a hard punch straight at her face. Ella dodged to the left and ducked with a quick strike at her ribs, causing her to 'oof' backwards in the grass, her skirt and hair flying.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" chanted the other students, and they were then surrounded by everyone in the quad. Hermione whipped out her wand with a lioness-like roar and Ella slipped out hers. Traditionally, one would bow before dueling, but they were playing street rules.

" _Stupefy_!" shouted Hermione, which Ella quickly blocked with a nonverbal shield.

A quick squiggle-flick of her wand cast: " _Caerse_!", the clumsiness curse, which caused every move Hermione made to stumble and fall like a newborn faun, clumsily trying to stand up straight. A great deal of laughter erupted as her ankles buckled sideways and frontways and backways. Ella twirled her wand defiantly, and decided to look over her shoulder to give Draco a confident wink. The second that she did, however—

" _Expelliarmus!"_ Ella's wand flew, as did Hermione, sideways. Her eyes aflame with rage, Ella snarled at her clumsy opponent, who was smiling in a crumpled, tangled heap on the soft ground. _Oh_ , _I don't give a_ SHIT _if this is to impress Draco, now!_

Ella licked her lips and whistled, the kind of whistle you might use to call for a dog, and her beautiful sycamore wand was summoned from the soft ground straight into her hand. Gasps of shock and surprise erupted in a wave, and she was sure that she even heard a scream or two. Hermione's eyes went wide; she had obviously never read that you could summon a wand back from _expelliarmus_. Ella grinned and put her wand down at her side, pointing her finger with her left, summoning the ancient spell of her ancestors. Everything went suddenly slow, a sign that the spell was about to work, and the world around her stalled as the feeling of rage, of conviction, of fire in her belly overcame her eyes, and a single word came to her mind, as she looked at Hermione: " _pig._ "

A jolt of white-green light went straight from Ella's finger to Hermione's heart, and time sped back up to its normal as a pair of pink ears sprouted out of the top of Hermione's thick hair. Her petite nose grew out, all hairy and snout-like, and she shrunk all at once into a fat little squealing piglet. A roar of laughter unlike any she'd ever heard before dinned over the circle. A rush of euphoria came over her as she watched her successful spell take action, and when she flipped her hair and looked over her shoulder at Draco, his jaw was dropped open and his eyes went wide as saucers, and she swear they turned into pink, pumping hearts, just like in the cartoons. Ella couldn't help but smile, because he was looking at her as if "My Heart Will Go On" was playing in the background. All of that, however, was interrupted when Professor Snape—who had apparently seen the whole thing—came and pinched her ear to drag her off, along with a great amount of clamor from the other professors.

* * *

"Minerva! A transfiguration that even you are unaware of? What a talented young witch!"

"Pomona, please don't encourage her—it must be a curse of some kind."

"I've never come across this. Surely it's an American transfiguration. And she cast it nonverbally? Oh, Severus!" Ella looked over her shoulder from the chair she was sitting in. The other three Head of Houses were squabbling over Hog-mione, who was a squealing piglet on the desk that they couldn't seem to transfigure back to the normal shape. It was the thing about the Cambiatus curse, you see, that made it impossible to be cast or un-cast by a witch or wizard that was not a Christophe, a very special kind of blood magic that was kept a family secret through the Fidelus charm. You kept it a secret, of course, by teaching only nonverbally, and with a very specific kind of skill that most seem to have forgotten: to be truly in-touch with your own emotions. When Professor Snape glided into the room, though, Ella wondered why Professor Dumbledore was nowhere to be found. This school was so bizarre...

Professor Snape glanced a knowing glance at his goddaughter, quirked a brow, and then looked to the piglet on Professor McGonagall's desk. Professor Flitwick was pouring over every book he could find, and Professor Sprout was patting Hog-mione on the head, trying to keep her calm. Surely, they had better things to do? Who the heck was teaching the classes? England was so backwards...but maybe this was what happens when you have such a small student body?

"Severus, your student seems to have transfigured Miss Granger into a piglet using a S.O.U."

 _A...sow?_ Ella didn't know much about her Godfather, save for what her mother had told her about him, but she swear she saw a glimmer of a smile on his pursed lips, and she immediately liked him, just a little. He then adopted a rather cruel sneer and glowered down his long nose at her, and Ella felt a strange sense of shame in the bottom of her belly. He crossed his robed arms.

"A S.O.U., Miss Zamora?" he sneered. "And I suppose you've some reason for causing so much trouble after narry being here one month?" _Why is he pausing so much between each word...?_

 _"_ A...'sow'?" She frowned in question.

"A Spell of Origins Uknown."

"Oh!" laughed Ella. "In America, we call those—"

"I don't _care_ what you call them in America," he snapped. "Would you mind _explaining_ why you've decided to unleash whatever it is you've unleashed on Miss Granger?"

"She started it!" gasped she, pointing at the squealing pig, who was now screaming at an ear-splitting level. "You did so!" she shouted while she squealed higher and higher. "Did so!" The American looked up at her Godfather with as big eyes as she could manage. "Professor, she did! You've seen my record—it's perfect! You know I wouldn't cause any trouble!" She pointed a finger at her reluctant rival. "She's the one that started it, I swear! She even threw a punch at me before she whipped out her wand! Ask anybody; they all saw!"

"That is a very serious accusation!" gasped Professor McGonagall.

"Indeed," agreed Professor Sprout, wringing her dragonskin gloves. "Miss Granger's such a good student, though." Argued she, before lowering her voice to a whisper. "Perhaps promoting her to Prefect, Minerva, was a bit much for the poor dear?" Ella had told everyone that her hearing was awful, but it was really excellent; it was a tricky way to get people into thinking that she wasn't listening. "She does tend to be a bit on the high-strung end."

"And I suppose this claim has evidence?" queried Professor Snape.

"My claim has evidentiary support out the ying-yang!" Ella proclaimed. "Ask anyone that was out there—I've got no less than twenty witnesses that saw her throw the first punch. Even that ginger boyfriend of hers was trying to talk her out of it..." Ella read all the files, had heard tales of Hermione's temper from all the birds. She decided to go in for the kill, and adopted a tone of feigned ignorance. "It's almost like he _knew_ she was going to be violent or something."

Professor Snape gave her a knowing glance, and turned away from her to face the other three professors. "Miss Granger _does_ have a violent streak, and Miss Zamora has been Captain of the Thunderbird Girls' Dueling Team since she was a second-year. That doesn't happen without extensive knowledge of rules and dueling protocol."

"And dueling protocol in America is so different?" snapped the salty Professor McGonagall.

"The rules of wizard's duels are quite clear," piped Professor Flitwick. "One must finish what they start—"

"I'm _quite_ clear of how to duel, Filius. What I'm _unclear_ of is how to turn Miss Granger back when the last spell cast from Miss Zamora's wand was a curse of clumsiness." Ella noticed Professor Snape walking to examine Hog-mione.

"And so she must have cast it wandlessly?" suggested Professor Sprout. "Her grades _are_ top-notch."

"Nonverbal _and_ wandless transfigurations at fifth year?" balked Professor McGonagall.

"It's not unheard of, Minerva. The students at Uagadou learn magic without wands from the start," Professor Flitwick argued. "And the indigenous magical community of America got along just fine without wands before the Muggle settlers came from England."

"Filius—"

"The Cambiatus Curse." The dialogue stopped as Professor Snape held his wand over the piglet's head, who seemed to go quiet at his presence alone. "Extremely dangerous, wildly unpredictable type of blood magic heard of only in the legends of the Monegasque." Ella shrunk. "It is a curse shrouded in mystery, as the only holders of its technique and incantation are shown under a fidelus charm, strengthened with blood magic. It is taught wandlessly and wordlessly so as to keep the ancient secrets of this curse. It is, in fact, one of the famous transfigural curses gave birth to legends of witches and wizards turning muggles into toads with only the point of a finger. It is considered to be one of the most-dangerous curses one can cast, but since the incantation is unknown, it is impossible to regulate."

"There's a counter-curse, of course?" gasped Professor Sprout.

"Naturally," said Professor Snape.

"Then we can call upon the girl's grandmother!" suggested Professor Flitwick. "Helene Christophe is sure to come to our aid. We all know the stories... She's a war hero! A true warrior of right and wrong!" _Meme is a war hero?_

"Unfortunately, the counter-curse can only be cast by the original Christophe that cast the curse in the first place." All eyes went to Ella, and she felt like crawling under the chair. The kind and pleading look on Professor Sprout's face did nothing to cancel out the fact that the flesh on McGonagall's face looked like it was about to melt off. They all took rather threatening steps towards her, and Ella had to fight her instinct to change and fly away. Her heart felt as if it had jumped to her throat and began to pound at the back of her mouth.

"Well?" growled Professor Snape. Ella's eyes darted desperately between Snape and McGonagall. She wanted to ask for a sidebar, to explain to her godfather that she'd never done the counter-curse on a living thing before, that Meme and she only practiced on household objects. It was such a tricky curse, after all, governed entirely by one's emotions. To even _cast_ the curse you have to truly _feel_ that emotion, that want, that loathing, that will. The curser must cast away all compassion, all empathy, and focus entirely on that which does _not_ make the cursee human. You must turn them into a _thing_ because that's what they are, in your eyes, in that moment. But to reverse the curse? That required one thing that Ella didn't come by easily: forgiveness.

Professor Sprout was the first to speak, who was looking rather pitifully on her. "A moment?"

"What?" The three of them apparently understood what she was saying, and stepped back a bit while Professor Sprout gave a knowing smile to Ella. She gestured to the seat next to her.

"May I sit there?" Confused, Ella nodded silently. Mama had always said that Hufflepuffs were a Slytherin's best friend; was that going to prove true with the Hufflepuff Head of House? Professor Sprout lumbered down to the seat next to her, and turned to face her. "You haven't had it easy here, have you, Zamora?" Ella frowned, unsure of what to do next. She knew that Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore knew about her being in the Order and part of the AWIB under the guise of the EWE program...but did Professor Sprout know? Nobody had told her. "You've barely been here long enough to get your bearings, and now you're the most-popular witch in school."

"Yes, ma'am," agreed Ella, hesitant.

Professor Sprout nodded. "I know how it is. The pressure, I mean. Always having to say the right thing, do the right thing with your hair, wear the right clothes. When I was your age, _I_ was the most-popular witch in school."

 _Your shoes are covered in dragon dung, though_...

"Does that shock you?"

"No, ma'am," lied Ella, brightly and politely with a very sudden shake of her head. Professor Sprout smiled.

"I also taught your mother when she was in school. She would have earned herself a N.E.W.T., I'd think, had she stayed. She, too, had a bit of a temper. Ever the Slytherin, though, she knew how to control it."

Ella chewed the inside of her lip, feeling her mouth go a little dry. "Yes, ma'am," she agreed, swallowing.

"I imagine that her father and mother instilled quite a bit of that in her, which is why, I imagine, she decided to not pound it into your head, Zamora." She wasn't _quite_ sure where she was going with this, so she stayed quiet. "Is it hard for you to hear about her?" Professor Sprout then asked.

"No, ma'am," lied Ella, looking down at her folded hands. She felt a bit of a reassuring smile.

"I'll bet it's also hard to be the most-popular witch in school without your mother there to guide you." Ella frowned and shrunk away, crossing her arms along her chest.

"My mother was _not_ popular when she was my age," she spat, her voice cracking.

"It's true, she wasn't. In fact, she was a bit of an outcast. Most found her personality to be...well, abrasive."

Ella's chest felt as if it were going to cave in; her shoulders shrank in anguish and anger. _Is_ this _what Hufflepuff kindness is supposed to be like?_

"She annoyed most, a bit like Miss Granger." Ella looked up in surprise. "Your mother, too, was a bit of a know-it-all. She liked to push buttons, but _unlike_ Miss Granger, she knew when she was going to go too far, and she knew when to leave somebody alone." Ella's eyebrows tilted up in concern, and then looked down as a wave of remorse began to creep at her ankles and slowly rise up her legs. Was that true? "But once you get to know Miss Granger, I'm sure you'll be able to get along." She looked over at the piglet, who wasn't really a piglet, but a classmate. Ella knew that Hermione was a great threat to her mission, but maybe it wasn't the wisest thing to make someone else a casualty. "Do you think you're willing to try if she would be willing to try, too?"

Ella doubted very much that Hermione would be willing to try, but considering that she had little choice, she nodded with a deep sigh. "Yes, ma'am."

Professor Sprout smiled. "There, now, dear. Take a breath and give it a try." She nodded pointedly to Hermione, who was on McGonagall's desk, snorting. Ella sighed through her nose and stood up, taking out her wand and rubbing the wood handle nervously with her thumb. She wouldn't use her wand for this, of course, but she always held it close when she felt nervous. The noble Sycamore tree is a wood of questing, of adventure and curiosity, and when paired with a thunderbird feather core, one would be a fool to say that she who would possess such a wand would be anything other than an extraordinary explorer, destined for greatness. Here she was, though, in the biggest trouble she'd been in that year, surrounded by Professors in a foreign land, with a near-wholly-botched mission for the government of her own country, dealing with the consequences of the most-dangerous curse she could imagine.

 _Oh well. Boo hoo._ Ella tucked her wand into her sleeve, where she kept it for safekeeping, and walked towards Hermione with a conviction that she was faking. _This is okay_ , she told herself. _Don't be nervous. It's just like walking into the arena of a potions competition. This is certainly less nerve-wracking than the world potions competition. And, hey, you won that. You're okay. Just take in a deep breath through your nose, and slowly out your mouth._ Ella was good at calming herself under pressure.

"Well?" Flitwick's voice snapped her out of her tranquil state. She had a right mind to punt him out the window for that, but of course she wouldn't.

"Let Zamora concentrate, Filius," said Professor Snape. "This is a particularly tricky countercurse."

"But she _can_ do it?" whispered Professor Flitwick.

"Let — her — try." Growled Snape, causing Ella to inwardly smile. She looked over at her godfather, whom she had hoped to be smiling at her; he wasn't. He wasn't looking particularly annoyed, of course, but he still gave an encouraging nod of the head. Just think, this was the man that her mother had deemed fit to care for her should anything happen to both herself and her father. She didn't know if she liked him yet, but she was trying very hard to do so. It did hurt her feelings a little to know that he didn't instantly adore her, welcome her with open arms. Plus, his house smelled dusty and stale.

Ella took in a deep breath through her nose, then sighed out through her open mouth. She looked over to Hermione, who seemed to be shaking with rage. Ella had to fight the urge to threaten to brine her with brown sugar and smoke her with hickory if she didn't shut up. After a moment, she reminded herself that she might not like being turned into a pig very much either. If Hermione truly was like her mother, it would certainly explain why she immediately disliked her—her mother was _always_ picking on her. Ella couldn't even remember what it sounded like when her mother said 'I love you', only when she was barking orders at her.

' _Sit up straight. Don't put your elbows on the table. Stop leaving your shoes everywhere. Hang up your cardigan. Finish your homework. Clean your room. Stop playing with your food. Don't backtalk me. Don't disobey me. Sit still. Get your feet off the sofa. Close the door. I said get_ green _tomatoes, not red ones. Don't even think about going to that audition._ _You're too young to wear makeup, go wash your face. You're too old to wear socks, wear stockings instead. Get that disgusting glitter nail polish off your fingers. I never want to see those awful shoes again. Take your hair down, you're not a factory worker. Go brush your teeth. You're not going out until you polish your shoes. Don't wear your good dress outside - you'll tear it. Get off that shelf, young lady, before you fall and break your neck!'_

Ella snorted to herself in remembrance of her mother. _Tch. Yeah. I've never even fallen before_ — _I change before I hit the ground._ A tightness suddenly grew in her chest, and then a lump caught in her throat. To her horror, her eyes began to well, and her nose felt itchy; she closed her eyes before her vision could blur with tears. Her shoulders went unnaturally tight, and every inch of her skin prickled up, threatening to feather out and allowing her to fly away from the train of grief that bombarded her heart. Her hand quickly came up and covered her nose and mouth, and a horrible yowling came up inside her, clawing to get free. Ella's legs buckled and she lowered herself to her knees, feeling as if she might vomit at any moment.

 _It's okay,_ she tried to tell herself. _It's okay. Stop. Do what you have to now, then cry later. For God's sake, keep it in._

She stifled a breath, swallowing her sudden attack of...whatever that was. Ella took in a deep breath and chanted to herself, "Think, think, think _,_ " in a low whisper, and with those magic words the storm of her mind began to calm, and clouds parted to reveal a clear gray winter sky. Below was her Mind Palace, and the second she saw it she felt herself go inside, swirling around the halls, flying passed doors that were closed tight. She found a door that was large and ornate and made entirely of frosted glass, covered with gold locks. With a wave of her palm, the locks clicked open with the grace of a perfect design, and the door opened to reveal a blinding white light. This was the door that held all of the memories of _Meme,_ and from it came only her voice, washing over her with the scent of the sea and the sound of waves:

" _Forgivenesz eez not alwayz becauz zey deezerve eet; eet ees zsometimez becauze you deezerve peacze."_

 _Peace..._ Chanted Ella to herself. _Peace... I deserve peace. I deserve peace. I deserve peace._ She said it to herself over and over, as the feeling of an ocean breeze washed over her, filling her lungs with salt. _Maybe you deserve it, too..._

The light burst over, and flooded the palace, and when Ella opened her eyes, the light faded and Hermione Granger stood before her, doe-eyed and very much a human girl again. Ella rose to her feet to meet her gaze. "Um, Hermione—"

"YOU—!"

"AAAAAAHHH!"

"MISS GRANGER!"

"AAAAAAAAAHHH GET HER OFF ME!"

"YOU LOATHSOME COW!"

"MISS—! GRANGER—!" Professor McGonagall ripped Hermione away by the shirt collar while Professor Snape pried Ella out of her claws, Hermione taking a fistfull of ebon curls with her.

"MY HAIR! MY HAIR! SHE PULLED MY HAIR OUT! PROFESSOR SNAPE, DID YOU SEE WHAT SHE DID TO ME?!"

"MISS GRANGER!" roared Professor Snape. "Are you _quite_ finished with assaulting our foreign exchange student?!"

"But sir—!" Hermione began to protest.

"—Miss Zamora left America to get _away_ from terrorist attacks, not be subjugated to this rumpus!"

"Professor McGonagall—"

"—I can't believe I'm about to say this, Miss Granger, but Professor Snape is right! I don't know what was said to provoke this abhorrent behavior, but you shan't disgrace the House of Godric Gryffindor by attacking any foreign guests."

 _Ouch_. Ella felt a twinge for Hermione, who looked as if she was about to burst into tears. She couldn't say anything, though, for the sake of… _Wait, how was this pertinent to the mission?_ Ella felt the back of her skull, wondering if she was bleeding.

"I am _shocked_ at your Miss Granger. I'm sure that you two have your disagreements, but that is no excuse to be openly attacking one another."

"Well, I—for one—am _not_ shocked at this barbarism. Fifty points from Gryffindor!" snarled Snape.

"Sir!" cried Hermione, tears welling at her eyes.

"Seventy- _five_ , then!"

"Severus," whispered Professor Sprout.

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Professor Snape, Miss Granger," said Professor McGonagall gravely. "And I will be writing to your parents about this." Hermione looked destroyed, and Ella began to feel a great deal of remorse for picking a fight with her like this. _I did this for a reason,_ she reminded herself. _I had to…didn't I?_ She remembered Hermione's record was good; there's no way she'd get suspended for this. Still, this had to be a big mark against her. And all for what? _The safety of the Wizarding World, Ella. You're doing this for America...right?_

"Zamora." Ella was abruptly snapped from her thoughts by McGonagall's voice. "I hope you know that this does not reflect Hogwarts as a whole." She frowned in confusion. "We are happy to host you and happy to have you here in our school."

 _Wow. I wasn't expecting that_. "Uh—" She cleared her throat. "Thank you, ma'am. I'm happy to be here."

"Now, Miss Granger, I think an apology is in order." Ella looked over to Hermione, who had tears streaming silently down her face. She felt awful.

Hermione's voice was small as she croaked "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," said Ella, sincerely, the reality of what her actions were causing slowly hitting her. _You're doing this for America, Ella. It's okay. You're doing this for the sake of the world. You're doing this for a reason. It's okay. It is… Isn't it?_ "I'm sorry, too."

"There, now. An _American_ is more mature than you," sneered Professor Snape with a shocking amount of vindictiveness. Ella looked up at him in shock. McGonagall sighed and dismissed Hermione to go back to her dormitory. The back of her head felt sore, and when she felt the nape of her neck, she felt a whole patch of her hair missing, causing her to audibly gasp. Professor Snape looked down at her. He must have seen her trembling lip for he sighed through his long nose and said: "I'll make you something to grow your hair back." He put his arm around her and escorted her towards the door.

 _Wait, so that's it?_ That's _how they handle assault at this school? What kind of crazy place is this?!_ As they made their way to the door, Ella could hear muffled shouting on the other side. Professor Snape quirked a brow and swung the door open to find Harry and Draco arguing in a rather heated manner. Ella was stunned.

"Professor!" Draco exclaimed. "I saw it!" He near-shouted, pointing his bony finger at Harry. "That _thing_ assaulted Ella out of nowhere! I thought that _creature_ was going to tear her apart! I tried to find you!"

"Mister Malfoy—"

"That's a lie!" insisted Harry. "Zamora started the whole thing—"

"—I have no less than ten witnesses to this flagrant violence against her, willing to testify at any moment! Ella was acting in self-defense, _Potter_!"

"Mister _Malfoy—_ "

He turned back to Professor Snape, his chest puffed out much farther than she thought his bony frame could muster it to puff. "If any punishment dares to befall Ella Zamora, my father will hear about it—!"

"MISTER MALFOY!"

Silence met all four of them. When Ella looked, she guessed that Hermione was nowhere to be seen for she had run off with Ronald, leaving Harry to their only defense. The tension could be cut with a knife.

"I have no intention of punishing Miss Zamora."

"Of course you don't, sir!" agreed Draco with a ridiculous amount of conviction. Ella was so tired of the entire situation that she rolled her eyes and stormed away, half-desperate to get a moment alone. "E-Ella!" called Draco. She then heard the sound of his polished shoes running to chase her down the hall. She quickened her pace. "Ella, please don't make me chase you!" She rounded the corner of the corridor, light streaming in from the giant windowpanes. "Ella—! Ella, please wait—" He didn't grab at her wrist, but gently touched her shoulder. She stopped in a huff as he twirled around to come to face her. "Ella, I'm sorry I raised my voice. Please don't be so upset," he begged.

She frowned in question. _He's sorry he raised his voice…?_ His face looked so different just then, so…sincere. She'd never seen that look on his face before, and Ella couldn't help but frown in question. His gray eyes begged for some kind of answer, and for the first time in forever she actually thought he maybe wasn't so weird-looking after all. _Is he actually liking me now?_

"Oh," he said, looking at her sleeve and touching the fabric at her shoulder. When Ella looked, she saw that it had torn at the seam in the scuffle.

"Augh!" she huffed and pulled out her wand. " _Reparo_ ," she cast, and her sleeve stitched itself up.

"Did she attack you again in there?" he gasped, his voice low, but full of genuine concern. Ella felt very confused about where all of this was coming from. It was getting harder and harder to get a read on this Malfoy guy by the moment. Horrified at the realization that he wasn't about to let her go without an answer, she tearfully lifted up the right side of her hair to reveal the newly ripped bald spot at the nape of her neck. His jaw dropped in shock. "That disgusting little _mudblood_!" he spat. Ella frowned in confusion.

"What's a mudblood?"

"You—?" He straightened up. "You don't know what a mudblood is?" Ella shook her head. "Muggle?" She'd heard that word here and there, but nobody in Slytherin had ever given her a straight answer, and at this point she was afraid to ask. She shook her head again. "You mean you don't have—? In America, there are no—? You don't go to school with—?"

"Spit it out, dude," Ella snapped.

"Nevermind, Ella, it's a dirty word," he said with much waving of the hands.

"So you're cussing in front of me now?" she balked, annoyed.

"You're right, I'm sorry." Ella looked away, her chest feeling uncomfortably tight. This was the reason that she was here, though, wasn't she? To gain his trust and befriend him? To get inside the Death Eaters somehow? Learn their secrets? But at what cost? She slowly began to wonder if she was actually capable of seeing this mission through. "Let me buy you something?" he then asked. She looked up, incredulous, her mouth hanging slightly agape. "What's wrong?" She quickly shut her mouth then looked away.

"Sorry, it's just..." Ella couldn't help but smile. "That's always my father's first response when I've had a bad day."

"That's a good thing for me, I hope," he said, smirking that dopey smirk he always smirked. A tiny laugh escaped her chest.

"Yeah, my dad's pretty cool," she admitted. "I kind of…miss him." A beat. "Do you miss your father when you're far away from him?" This was possibly rushing things, and he didn't seem responsive, for he shrugged with a dismissive grin and then said:

"How about a hat? A marvelous hat with a festoon of beautiful feathers," he suggested, gesturing wildly over her head with his spindly, pasty fingers. Ella cringed.

"…Who's feathers would they be?"

Draco frowned, then soon realized how creepy it might be for a bird to wear another bird's feathers—she guessed—for he then looked away and said "Oh." After a moment, he smiled and said: "Flowers, then? A hat with flowers on it— _beautiful_ plumerias or perhaps a chrysanthemum or two?"

She looked down. She wanted very much to be able to put on a happy face and smile and swoon and get on with it, but she just couldn't seem to get a hold of her emotions and shake this awful feeling of guilt. She'd nearly ruined a poor, unsuspecting person's life with no conscious or care for—

"Not flowers, eh? Hmm." Ella sighed. "Jewels, then! A tasteful, bejeweled hat. You know, I think I saw one in the window at Gladrags. It's a shade or two lighter than navy blue with a satin ribbon. It ought to match your Ilvermorny robes. Let's go try it on." Ella looked up; he was offering his arm, looking rather tall and pleased with his own idea, giving a half-smile that looked truly half-genuine. She sighed and circled her arm through his, curling her and up to squeeze his bicep—half to show some kind of affection, half to see if there was anything really there. _Nope, still nothing._ They began to walk. He seemed rather proud to be with her, and seemed to be a bit taller, now, too. She guessed that it was because she was slouching, but she wasn't about to let her posture suffer, so she straightened herself up to match his pace.

Ella looked over to him and examined his profile. He was near-swaggering with such extreme confidence, you'd have guessed that _he_ was the one that had cast a wandless, nonverbal curse, and then cast the counter-nonverbal-wandless-curse in front of four people. _Oh, right; I picked a fight with her so he'd like me more_ , she reminded herself. She didn't expect him to come galloping to her defense, however; that part was a surprise. She'd expected him to find her later and make some snide remark, and then offhandedly mention that she was now in the cool kids' club, but certainly not following and shouting and threatening in that way. It then hit Ella: he was _protective_. She smiled.

"Prussian," she said.

He looked over to her with a quizzical eye.

"A shade or two lighter than navy blue is _Prussian_ blue, and you're right, it _does_ match my Ilvermorny robes. The official colors are Prussian Blue and Cranberry Red, and all robes are clasped with a golden Gordian knot."

"Why don't you have different colors for different houses?"

"Because we're all a part of one whole, of course!" Draco didn't seem to understand. They walked down the stairs together as it began to move to attach itself to another corridor. "Here's a riddle—what's more powerful, five or one?"

"Five, of course," answered Draco without thinking.

Ella sighed and rolled her eyes. She held up her left hand, her fingers spread wide open. "Five," she said. Draco nodded; Ella clenched all five fingers into a fist. "One. One army, united, indivisible." He looked…pensive. She began to smile inside, feeling a bit of him open up to her. "Were you really going to call your father for me?"

He waited, then smiled. "Yeah," he said. Ella smiled, too, and his big-ass forehead somehow began to look smaller.

* * *

WOW. Okay. Phew. This is obviously earlier in the timeline than we've been in awhile, and we FINALLY find out who she transfigured into a piglet! Okay, so, we're really seeing things play out. No WONDER Hermione hates Ella's guts! She nearly ruins her life! Ugh. There's a _lot_ of moral gray and a lot of gross intrigue and teenage drama. We're seeing remorse. We now know how the Cambiatus curse works. But why the heckin' heck is all of this relevant? Why do we care about this curse at all? And WHO KILLED LUCIUS MALFOY?! We're going to find out in the next chapter. Know why? KNOW WHY? Because it's the trial. Hopefully I'll be able to finish that chapter within the next goddamn year... .

Thank you, as always, to HeartofAspen, PancakeStack, SabrinaJasmine, Death's Avenging Angel, and my guest readers! I really appreciate your patience. I hope you have an awesome Thanksgiving! Gobble gobble!


	29. Chapter 29

In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...

This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.

* * *

 **Ella 21**

* * *

"Daddy, do you like Draco?" Her father looked up from his case file, his sausage-like fingers rifling through the parchments like they were nothing.

"Do I have to?" he asked.

Ella shrugged without thinking, far too quickly for anyone to really give a true answer to a question like that. ' _Do I have to_?' _he asks. Do I have to what?_ Everyone was passing them as they sat on the bench, filing in to the courtroom. Court was starting in 10 minutes.

"Do I _have_ to like your boyfriend?" he pressed.

"He's not my boyfriend," said Ella, far too quickly for anyone to believe her.

Daddy snapped his file shut in annoyance, sneering in disbelief. "But he's got a key to your house," he stated.

"I just want to know if you like him or not."

"Ellie, I don't have to like him to defend him in court."

"He didn't kill his father," Ella stated.

"Don't say things like that right here," he whispered, gesturing around at the Wizengamot.

"Why not? He didn't."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do!"

"SHHHH!" Daddy snapped his briefcase shut and turned to face her, the very same look on his face that he once got when she was seven and he faced her to let her know that slipping itching powder into other kids' chocolate milk was not okay. "Alright, that's it. I have had it up to _here_ with you and this guy. You write me weird letters about him. You get in trouble in school because of him. You throw yourself in _life-threatening_ danger because of him. You get yourself involved with the _police_ because of him. And you give him a key to your place without talking to me about it first? You have _always_ thought things through, and always done your best to, at least, _attempt_ to be smart about important things, like your future. What happened here? What happened to my smart girl? What kind of father would I be if I _actually liked_ this guy? Honest to God, why the hell should I like somebody who is obviously so bad for you?"

Ella's jaw tightened, her lip began to tremble, and her eyes felt hot; she knew she was going to cry. Daddy looked at her, incredulous.

"Are you friggin' kidding me with this right now?"

"I hate you!" she shouted before standing and running to the ladies' room.

She shoved the door open and ran into the first stall, slamming the door behind her. A tight heat ran through her chest, and a sharp sob escaped her throat. She stepped to hover over the bowl of the toilet, her right hand coming to hold herself up while her left came over her mouth in some sad attempt to quiet her cries. It was the most ridiculous thing; she didn't even really know why she was crying. But there she was, her legs shaking like a newborn faun, crying so hard she thought she might vomit. Ella fell to her knees, the smell of industrial-grade cleaning potion almost caustic against her nose, trying desperately to catch her breath. She felt an almost demon-like pain fill her chest, and for a split-second she panicked - what if this was how she died, stupidly, of some kind of freak panic attack in the bathroom of the Ministry of Magic?

The stall door swung open. Ella's head snapped around to shout at whomever had dared, but her anger was quelled when she saw the figure in black before her.

"Mrs. Malfoy," she greeted tensely. A look of concern was painted on Mrs. Malfoy's normally stoic-yet-judgmental face; she offered her hand. Ella wasn't sure what she was supposed to say in this exact situation, but she took her hand and hoisted herself up, brushing her bottom off with her other hand. "Thanks." Silently, Mrs. Malfoy offered Ella a linen handkerchief. She smiled and used it to dab the corners of her eyes gently, and then her nose. Mrs. Malfoy guided her to the mirrors and opened her handbag. She pulled out a tiny compact with pale green creme pressed inside. "Uh..."

"Green combats redness," she explained gently, taking a small brush from her handbag and painting the greenish cream on and around the tip of Ella's nose and under her eyes. "Close your eyes." She pulled out another brush and began to buff Ella's face, which felt a bit like tiny pinpricks all over her cheeks. "There. Much better." Ella opened one eye to see Mrs. Malfoy smiling gently at her. "Go ahead and see." She gestured to the mirror. When she looked, Ella was surprised to see that her reflection didn't appear to have been crying at all.

"Wow," she gasped.

"I'm surprised that your mother never showed you."

"No way; she forbade me to wear makeup until I was sixteen." Ella shrugged nonchalantly. "She never had a chance to show me anything. I learned from watching friends...and my Transfigurations teacher, of course." Mrs. Malfoy obviously found that a little odd, but her third-year transfigurations teacher, Professor St. Charles, was an expert at both magical and mundane transformations of all shapes and sizes. When Professor St. Charles came to the front of the class for the first time in a plain black suit, they had said 'welcome to Transfigurations', and transfigured into a beautiful woman with bright pink hair that looked as if it were made of cotton candy.

"You do quite well for being self-taught." Ella smiled, tense. There was a long pause, long enough for a witch that worked for the Beasts Division to exit one of the stalls, wash and dry her hands, and then leave. "We haven't spoken in a long time."

"No, we haven't," she agreed. Ella cleared her throat.

"I..." Mrs. Malfoy gulped. "I suppose I owe you a rather large apology, for allowing you to be held captive the way we did." A beat. "Draco once said that the best apology is changed behavior. I can only assume that this wisdom came from you."

 _It came from my father, actually._ Ella's chest went tight, as did her jaw. "Honestly, I've tried to block that out," she stated simply. She then turned her head to the left and displayed her throat, near the junction of her neck and shoulder. "As you can see, the scars have mostly healed." She looked back at her, straight into her eyes. "To tell you the truth, I'm a little sad that they'll be gone soon. I used to hate them, but now I think they make me look brave."

"Draco felt terrible about it."

"I know," said Ella, rather shortly. "He visited my cage every day."

Mrs. Malfoy put away her brushes and cosmetics. "For what it's worth, I heard him crying every night for those two weeks, no matter how Lucius tried to tell him that it was all for the best."

"For the best," repeated Ella, smiling. A wheezing laugh ridiculously began in the back of her throat, and spilled out to a loud chortle which echoed throughout the now empty ladies' room. Tears blurred her vision; a hand came over her ribs as she shook her head in disbelief. "If you people weren't so ridiculously delusional, I would actually feel sorry for you."

"Ella—"

"—No, it's fine. Really. I know it's whatever you have to tell yourselves at night to justify—"

"—I can never make up for what was done to you and you are right. All I know is that Draco loves you—"

"—Then why did he let what happened to me happen?" she demanded. "Why did he let his father put a cursed _collar_ on me to keep me in my animal form, in a _cage_ , in your basement? Why didn't he stop Hermione from being tortured? Or Mr. Ollivander or my friend Luna from being held captive? For God's sake, Mrs. Malfoy, can't you imagine how scared I was? Can't you imagine how terrified I must have felt, sitting in that dark cage, wondering if my family would ever know what had happened to me?"

There was a long, pregnant pause. "I can imagine," she simply said, calmly. "All of those arrows you left in my parlor showed that Lucius was right to fear you." Ella imagined that this was an attempt to be some kind of joke, to lighten the mood. It might have been the first duel in her life, during that skirmish at the manor, that she'd truly _meant_ to do harm to another. Not that it didn't compare…

"Your own sister tried to _kill_ me," growled Ella.

"Yes, she did, and it was Draco's love for you that was your salvation," Mrs. Malfoy insisted. Ella did a double-take in shock. "Surely that redeems him in some fashion, Ella."

"How did—?" She shook her head again. "How is that even possible?

"The ring, of course. It was enchanted. He took it from the Malfoy treasury, all of which within are powerful, ancient magics. Surely you didn't believe that a spell like that could just _bounce_ off of a reflective surface and you just _happened_ to have your hand in the right place at the right time?"

"The—? The _diamond_ ring? The one that he—?"

"—He gave it to you out of pure love. And you accepted. Love is the most-ancient and powerful magic that we have. Some have even forgotten that it is a magic at all."

"This doesn't make _any_ sense. In order for that ring to counter a killing curse, it would have had to be... _alive_. You can't expect me to believe that a ring could be alive, can you?"

"Haven't stranger things happened?" asked Mrs. Malfoy, almost lightly.

This caused her to pause and consider. _Haven't stranger things happened?_ Ella began to list all of the things that she knew that shouldn't be possible, but was. _There's a candy to make you roar like a lion. There's a sport played on broomsticks with exploding balls. There's a six-legged cat that's you can't kill. There's a spell to make a sled out of ice. There's a potion that can turn you into someone else. There's a kind of glass that will never break. There's a kind of ice cream that will never go runny. There's a necklace that can turn back time. There's a special set of words to say to create a whole flock of birds out of thin air. There's a whole race of people that can bend space, time, and matter to their will. Is it something so impossible to think that a diamond ring can be alive?_

"I guess I just..." Ella shook her head. "This is a lot to take in." Mrs. Malfoy nodded silently, wringing her hands. "I mean, how can I even...?" She shook her head. "Why are you telling me about this?"

"I suppose I hope that you'll understand and be as kind as I know you to be." _Me? Kind?_ "Without you, he couldn't have survived at all; not without your cunning and your skills, your... _work_." She was talking about Draco's lycanthropy. _He didn't tell her about how I screwed up his potions?_ Finally, she said: "I know that you love Draco very much. He will, someday, be able to prove himself worthy of it. You don't know what he was willing to do for you; what he _did_ do for you."

A creeping feeling of horror swept over her, and her chest began to heave. "No," she said, shaking her head. "He— He can't have—" A hand came up over her mouth in shock.

"Ella, listen, it's—"

"—Ella?" Mrs. Malfoy turned around, and Hermione's white face appeared behind her. Her thick brown hair had been smoothed back into a tight bun, and her brow was knitted with concern. "You need to come to the court room." _There's no time to panic_ , she quickly decided. The American witch nodded and carefully stepped away from Mrs. Malfoy. Hermione took her by the arm, her touch gentle and kind. They walked out of the bathroom together.

"Thanks," whispered Ella.

"Your hands are ice cold!" Hermione gasped. "Did she say something to you in there?" Ella squeezed Hermione's hand.

"I don't know," she whispered. "It's probably nothing." She was trying to tell herself more than she was trying to tell Hermione. "Draco's a lover, not a fighter." She immediately realized how odd that must have sounded out of context. The courtroom doors opened and they filed in, walking up to the arena-like benches where the rest of her friends were seated. Court was already in session, and the defense had already risen. Harry and Ron were dressed well for the court, and Draco was dressed in a sharp black suit, like always, but seated in the front row. They filed into the third row. To her shock and surprise, Neville was there, in the hot seat, in front of the entire wizengamot.

"Hey, Ella," greeted Ron, eyes on Neville, as she took her seat at Hermione's side.

"Why's Neville down there and not you?" she whispered.

"They're taking the Herbologist's report," answered Harry.

"And _Neville's_ the Herbologist? I thought he was an Auror!"

"You have to be an Auror to be the Herbologist in the Auror Department," explained Ron.

 _But I looked at the Herbologist notes. I didn't recognize the handwriting..._ Ella then realized, shocking enough to say aloud: "Neville's never written me a letter. Not even a note."

"What was that?" whispered Hermione. Ella quickly shook her head and smiled dismissively. "Are you sure that you're going to be all right?" She nodded again with a big smile.

"Please state your name for the Wizengamot," said a voice, and the Wizengamot went quiet.

"Neville Longbottom."

"And what do you do, Mr. Longbottom?"

"I'm the Herbologist that worked on this case."

"Thank you, Mr. Longbottom. Will you now please tell the Wizengamot, in your own words, your analysis on the victim?"

"Yes, er—" He dropped the files that were in his hands, causing a few muffled laughs here and there. _Don't laugh at him_ , thought Ella, as Neville collected the parchment sheets and scrolls.

"Don't laugh at him," whispered Hermione, Ella seeing how tense she had gotten. She couldn't help but smile.

"The compounds in this potion match with the apple seeds obtained from the orchard just south of Malfoy Manor. So, er, this poison was made with apple seeds as its largest component. Upon analysis of the apples from the groves of Malfoy Manor, both off the trees and in the cellars, tests confirm that they're the same. Therefore, the poison used to kill the victim was made from a highly concentrated extraction of these seeds."

"And how did you know to look for apple seeds?"

"Er—" He looked at Ella, then quickly looked away, likely remembering that he wasn't supposed to be looking at her. _Great_ , Ella sighed inwardly, realizing the full scope of how complicated this situation was. _All three of my exes are here. This is the best day_. "Th— The consulting potioneer looked at my initial analysis and, er, communicated to me that she knew about a grove on Malfoy Manor." Murmurs spread across the room in a lull.

"What is your relationship with the potioneer?" All eyes went on Daddy, who was sitting with his fingertips pressed together, looking contemplative.

"Are ya kidding me?" whispered Ella in horror.

"Wh—? E-Er— I—"

"You did attend school with the consulting potioneer on this case?" asked a member of the Wizengamot.

"Y-Y-Yes. She and I were in the same year."

"So working together isn't foreign to you," stated Daddy, who now stood and began to pace the floor. The British Wizengamot was taking the American legal system surprisingly well. Ella was truthfully shocked at how well everything was fitted together, all under the basis of 'international law'. It was her dual citizenship that was keeping everything together to make this trial work in ways that it wouldn't normally. It also was worth mentioning that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all instrumental in the changes of the legal systems in the magical world. After the war, they worked—they all worked to the bone to hold everyone more accountable, to make the system more equitable and fair. The last few years had changed so much. "Would you say that it's not a stretch to say that the two of you are close?" This would be the part in which a lawyer for the prosecution would say something like 'objection, counsel is leading the witness', but British magical lawyers were oddly inept, in Ella's mind, for such a task. Ella wasn't a licensed attorney, though, so she couldn't jump in.

"I..." Neville gulped. "No."

"No, you're not close, or no, it's not a stretch to say that you _are_ close?" asked Daddy, who was now at Neville's side. Neville looked very confused.

"We're not close," he finally answered.

"Not now or not ever."

"What's that matter?" shot Neville

"I have a point, I promise," said Daddy, now facing the Wizengamot. Nobody was saying 'objection' to anything. He turned back to Neville. "I'm just curious as to your relationship with the potioneer. It's quite obvious that the potioneer that worked on this case is indeed brilliant, but this is a rather _unusual_ ingredient, wouldn't you agree?"

"I-I suppose—"

"—And wouldn't you agree that, had you not had the potioneer's help, you wouldn't have pointed it to apple seeds? That, according to your notes, the closest you came was 'sweet almond,' isn't that so?"

"Well—er—I don't know—"

"—And wouldn't you agree that, since you knew the ingredient because of the potioneer, it was _very_ easy to recreate the poison that was likely to have been used in the killing of Lucius Malfoy?"

"Say 'objection'!" whispered Ella to Hermione as she jabbed her in the side with her elbow.

"What?" Hermione whispered back.

"Say 'objection, counsel is leading the witness!'"

Hermione quickly stood up and near-shouted. "Objection! Counsel is leading the witness!" All eyes went on Hermione, and then to the Chief Wizengamot.

"Sustained," he answered. "Make your point, Mr. Zamora." Daddy laughed.

"I'm just saying, isn't it just a little _too_ easy that Mr. Longbottom, who is _not_ a potioneer, recreated a simple-yet-deadly poison with just one or two ingredients? Especially someone who, time and again, failed at potions?" He waved his wand and copies of scrolls came up to the Chief Wizengamot. "I present for the court, exhibit P, Neville Longbottom's grades from his seven years of Hogwarts—N.E.W.T. classes in Herbology, no potions since 5th year." Ella was aghast; she wanted to have Hermione shout 'objection, irrelevant,' but the fact of the matter was that it _was_ relevant. "But notice the grades themselves. Not bad! Quite good, in fact, in many subjects. Mr. Longbottom isn't stupid. But, you know, it's very easy to ignore somebody when you think that they're stupid." He then turned on his heel to address the entire court.

"What's that matter?!" shouted Neville, his face now so red that it was nearing purple.

Daddy smiled the smile that he only smiled when someone asked the exact right question. "Do you know what 'mens rea' means, Mr. Longbottom? No?" He gestured around, but Ella was unsure of whom he was gesturing to. "Mens rea means the mind, the intent—if there's no mens rea, there's no intent of a crime, of a wrongdoing. Long and short of it is that there cannot be a crime without a vicious will." He turned to Neville and began to laugh. "But why in the world would _you_ have any vicious will against Lucius Malfoy? Oh, wait, I guess I should ask first— _do_ you have any vicious will against Lucius Malfoy?"

"Wha—? I-I…"

"It's a simple question, Mr. Longbottom. Yes, or no, did you have vicious will against Lucius Malfoy?"

"I—" Neville gulped, his face going back to the normal shade of pale-pink-yellow.

"Answer the question, Mr. Longbottom," said Minister Shacklebolt, calmly.

"I can't think of a wizard or witch that I know who didn't," answered Neville, which earned a few laughs from a few witches and wizards throughout the court, both in the Wizengamot and in the crowd. Daddy was smiling, but seemed only sarcastically amused.

"Mr. Longbottom, let's change the subject for a moment, shall we? Let's take a trip, back in time, in our minds to your Hogwarts days. Let's think about your classes, your friends, your—" he pointed over his shoulder at Draco, who was sitting at attention "— _other_ classmates that you didn't quite get along with. And, of course—" Daddy then pointed straight at Ella, without looking "—the ones that you _did_ get along with, or rather you would have _liked_ to have gotten along with." Though his back was turned, Ella could tell that he was grinning with his big rat teeth. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you? Or did you need that Remembrall—you know, the one you lost—to remember that you, in fact, _did_ have a relationship with potioneer Ella Zamora?" The crowd went wild with shocked whispers and gasps. Neville's face went white. Ella could swear she tasted pennies. "Not _during_ school, of course—no, she was dating Draco Malfoy then. But you knew that. Everybody knew that. Everybody knew that they were dating, but that didn't stop you from tutoring her in herbology, did it? All those long hours, sitting right next to the _prettiest_ , most-popular girl in school—almost too good to be true, isn't it?"

"Objection!" gasped Hermione, who had shot her fist in the air. "That statement is scandalous and misleading!"

"'Scandalous?' I'm just trying to establish a relationship, here," said Daddy, feigning innocence. The Chief Wizengamot motioned for him to continue. Daddy turned to Neville. "So, wait, you _didn't_ tutor Ella Zamora in herbology during 5th, 6th, and 7th years of Hogwarts? Yes or no, please."

Neville gulped. "Y-Yes," he said with a small voice. "I did."

Ella could tell that Daddy was grinning. "Boy, that must have been crazy for you. Pretty girl, smart, sitting _right_ next to you. And then again, she's not _just_ a pretty girl, is she? She was Student Founder of the Hogwarts Dueling Club, in choir, did a lot with the Student Prefecture…and all of her free time—as in, when she wasn't dedicated to school work and extracurriculars—she spent with someone you _actually_ had vicious will against. Someone who bullied you. Someone who cursed you. Someone who's made your life a living Hell since first year. He used to practice the leg-locker curse on you, didn't he? I'll bet his bullying made you angry. And then he starts dating the pretty transfer student that you have a _huge_ crush on? _Ouch_. Right out the _gates_? You never stood a chance."

"Objection, badgering the witness!" Ella near-shouted.

"I'm gonna go ahead and ignore that one because the one that objected is not a licensed attorney in this or in _any_ country—"

"Miss Zamora, please restrain yourself," said Minister Shacklebolt, who was obviously trying to remain as neutral as possible. "You'll have your turn on the stand."

"And, you know, once Malfoy screws up _epically_ —because, let's face it, you knew he would—" Daddy continued, now pacing around the room. "You _finally_ have your chance! You're dating _the_ girl. You go to movies with her. You go shopping with her. Everything is peachy keen, hunky dory, until—oh no—she's gotta go! She's gotta go somewhere _far_ , far away and she practically _waves it in front of your face_ that she wants you to go with her. But you just can't see that, can you? You make the _hugest_ mistake, don't you?"

"I didn't know she wanted me to go with her," growled Neville. The crack in his voice told the tale that he was lying.

"Why is he doing this to him?!" whispered Hermione, stunned.

"And what happens when she comes back, two years later? What happened on Tuesday, August 22nd, in the year 2000?"

"What?" breathed Ella in confusion, her eyes going back and forth between Neville's face and the back of Daddy's head. "Hermione, did you know about this?"

"What did you see, when you arrived at Borgin & Burkes with a bouquet of pink glimmeroses?" Neville's eyes darted to Draco. "That's right. You see that—" Daddy pointed back to Draco, still keeping his eyes on Neville "—smug _prick_ has gotten to her first. Again. That made you _real_ angry, didn't it, Neville? I mean, what's so great about him? He couldn't even get an invite to the Slug Club; he had to beg his girlfriend to invite him along to the Christmas party—you know, the one you got stuck with serving the drinks at? And that little twat still had the gall, the chutzpah, the unmitigated _audacity_ to look down on you and laugh at you then? This same jackass that threw around racial slurs and tossed his so-called girlfriend to Tim Roddle, Voldytort, in exchange for the lives of his jackass parents?"

"Objection!" shouted Tom Braxton, who was a graduate from Ilvermorny and third-year intern at the Hardman Red Feather office in London. He also lived two doors down from Ella growing up.

"SHADDUP, Tommy!" shouted Daddy over his shoulder before turning back to Neville.

"Sorry, Mr. Zamora," said Tom, sheepishly, who quietly sat down again. Ella looked at him, incredulous.

"Why in the world is he ganging upon him?!" whispered Hermione to Ella in horror. "You'd think that _he_ thinks that Neville killed Lucius Malfoy!"

"You never had vicious will against Lucius Malfoy. You only had vicious will against his son. And since you couldn't bring yourself to kill _him_ , you killed the only other person that was important to him. Isn't that so?"

"I-I didn't!" stammered Neville. "I didn't kill Lucius Malfoy!" he cried again. "I'm an Auror! I know what's right and wrong!"

Daddy stuffed his hands in his pockets and nodded slowly. "Keep telling yourself that." He looked to the Wizengamot. "Your witness," he said, walking away. Ella flapped herself down to the rail and hissed at him.

"What the hell was that?!" she whispered, too enraged to pay attention to the questions that Neville was now being asked.

"Sweetheart, Daddy's working," he explained, with the confidence of a serial killer.

"' _Working_?' You've got to be kidding!"

"Honey, I'm Draco's defense lawyer. If I'm defending him, I have no choice but to make others see all possible outcomes in which he didn't kill his own father. That means planting plausible deniability—"

"—By dragging an innocent wizard's name through the mud?!"

"But are you _so sure_ he's innocent?"

"You can't seriously!" she gasped.

"Whether I do or not, he's a perfect patsy and an idiot," Daddy whispered back. "It's obvious that he couldn't kill anybody, but it's not about _that_. Yet."

" _Yet_? The trial's almost over!"

"It's not over til it's over. These things can get dragged out for months."

"Neville may be forgetful but he's not stupid!"

"I'm pretty sure he _is_ stupid—"

"—Stop! He's _not_ stupid—!"

"—He asked you to marry him and he couldn't even be bothered to get your middle name right. Ella _Xanadu_ Zamora? Your mother and I didn't name you after the summer capital of China's Yuan dynasty post 1264."

"Xanadu was the name of a musical starring Olivia Newton-John as some mediocre muse sent to help some stupid roller skating mullet with a polyester vest—!"

"—Young lady, you will not insult Olivia Newton-John."

"I am twenty-one years old, I can insult whomever I like, including flat-bottomed, _flat_ -haired Olivia Newton-John."

Daddy pointed at her with a very straight finger. "Watch yourself, missy, that woman is a national treasure."

"To the UK and Australia!"

"She became a citizen of the world with her advocacy!"

"Miss Zamora!" She and Daddy looked up. "Please come to the stand." Ella's eyes went to the chair, and it was empty. She quickly scanned the room, but there was no sign of Neville. _Dammit, what did I miss?_ "Miss Zamora." Ella looked up again; she gulped. She felt her father's hand atop hers, and when she looked he was staring at her, seriously.

"Ellie, listen to me. You stick to your testimony. Remember that you're the consulting potioneer. Remember that you're smart. Okay? Chin up, shoulders back." Ella stood up straight; she hesitated. "Ellie." She looked down. "Nobody scares you…?"

"…Unless you let them." She took in a breath through her nose and out through her lips, and then closed her eyes. "Okay." She opened them, pushed her shoulders back, kept her chin parallel to the floor, and walked on. She didn't look to the side to see if Draco was looking—even though he likely was—nor did she look to see where Neville was. She was frankly more than annoyed with herself for arguing with her father for so long and getting distracted, not that it mattered.

Ella reached the chair and sat. She tucked her left ankle behind her right ankle, and folded her hands gently in her lap. Ella took another deep breath, calming herself, inwardly chanting _'think, think, think'_ , and smiled up at the Wizengamot.

"Please state your name for the Wizengamot."

"Ella Xanthippe Zamora."

"And where do you live, Miss Zamora?"

"Number 10, Spinner's End, Cokeworth."

"Not Westminster, London?" _That's where Percy lives._

"Objection, irrelevant," snapped the voice of Ella's father from the sidelines. Ella didn't look at him, though; she stared at Eddwyn Blocke, reigning Chief Wizengamot, who was looking down at her in a manner most austere. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, was there as well, looking rather curiously at her. He knew that she didn't do it, but others weren't so sure that she wasn't hiding something for Draco's behalf. It did help, however, that she could feel the eyes of her friends upon her, all sitting in the benches above, all waiting on their own turns to testify. The back of her mind felt tickled, for a part of her was feeling a rather strange sense of glee, especially considering that there had clearly never been this amount of accountability held in a British magical courtroom before, and Ella was secretly loving it.

"Miss Zamora," said Minister Shacklebolt. "Can you please tell everyone where you were on the evening of Monday, March 19th?"

"I was working at St. Mungo's in my laboratory, in the Lycanthropy wing."

"And with whom were you working?"

"Objection," shot Daddy, "the Wizengamot has no right to the private lives of my client's patients, as per the laws _and_ bylaws on healer-patient confidentiality." Ella wasn't sure if this counted, considering she wasn't a healer.

Minister Shacklebolt seemed amused. "I only meant, Mister Zamora, her coworkers, the Healers she was working with. And, may I state for the Wizengamot, I don't believe that Ella Zamora committed the murder of Lucius Malfoy for even a moment." Murmurs of agreement and shock went all around. "She doesn't make poisons, she makes cures." Ella and the Minister exchanged a smile.

"If it pleases the court, I've brought the time clock from the evening of the 19th. Names, dates, and department heads are all listed." She opened the file and held it up, where a member of the Wizengamot leviosa'd the form to their hands. All seemed satisfied.

"Miss Zamora, you stated that you thought that the poison was made from the seeds of apples?"

"I did." She motioned to her father. "If it pleases the court, may I present my notes on the analysis of the poison." Minister Shacklebolt motioned to Chief Blocke, who then nodded; Daddy opened his briefcase and out flew a rather full file which had admittedly been organized a bit. Ella never kept her notes organized in the traditional manner, so Daddy took it upon himself to 'make it decipherable to the masses', as it were. The folder floated to the hands of the Chief Wizengamot, who then opened it. "This is a poison made from organic compounds, made simply, with only one ingredient. It's incredibly complex, for only being one ingredient, but my analysis through testing concludes that this tests positive as a form of cyanide."

"Cyanide?" said a bearded Wizard, who looked to be older than Dumbledore. "Cyanide, you say?"

"Yes," said Ella, mildly miffed. " _Cyanide_."

"And what is cyanide?" asked a witch, who had far too much neck for Ella's taste.

"It's a chemical compound," said Justin Finch-Fletchley, who now was one of the youngest members of the Wizengamot, as a scribe. "Sorry," he said with a smile. "It's a very deadly poison, identified by muggles years and years ago." This caused quite a bit of clamor.

"A muggle-born, then!" cried a wizard. "A muggleborn must have killed Lucius Malfoy!"

"Excuse me," called Ella. "I don't believe so. A muggleborn wouldn't have had knowledge of Malfoy Manor's southern groves of apples. No muggleborns would have had free range over that land."

"What about during the Second Wizarding War?" asked Chief Wizengamot, leering down at her curiously. "The Malfoys were one of the families that held Muggleborn wizards and witches captive as prisoners of war." _Not just…_ thought Ella bitterly. "One could have seen the grove while they were there."

"The ones held in the Malfoy cellar during the Second Wizarding War never saw the light of day," stated Ella. This time, she felt Draco staring at her, mostly because she knew how it felt when he was looking at her with a great deal of guilt. She didn't wait for anyone to ask her why. "I was held there for two weeks myself." According to the amount of gasps, she guessed that about 70% of the people there didn't know that.

"Objection!" cried her father. "That is a libelous statement – you are a Pureblood."

"Overruled," snapped Ella, turning her head. "Irrelevant."

" _Not_ overruled—I remember the night you were conceived—!"

"—DAD!" Ella shouted, aghast. She turned back to address the Wizengamot. "I wasn't held in Malfoy Manor's cellar because of my blood status."

"Miss Zamora," began the turkey-necked witch in the crowd of maroon-clad judges. "Many have come forward to testify against Lucius Malfoy after the Second Wizarding War as being held there as prisoners of war. Why have you not come forward?"

It took Ella a moment; she only remembered reading newspaper articles about that trial, from her lab at Castelobruxo. "I was in Brazil when that was happening. Nobody asked me to testify." There was quite a clamor of talking amongst the Wizengamot, but not among the peanut gallery, who knew the truth. She hoped that nobody would ask further details, but that was far too much to want.

"Do you remember the dates of which you were held?" asked Minister Shacklebolt calmly.

"It was over Easter break. I had opted to stay at Hogwarts instead of going back to Monaco."

"Miss Zamora. Then-Headmaster, Severus Snape, was your legal guardian as your godfather. Was he a part of this treachery?" asked the turkey-necked Witch.

Ella's anger flared, a bit like a candle being lit within her chest. "I was over the age of 17, and therefore no longer an underaged witch during my 7th year at Hogwarts." She couldn't reveal that she was a part of the AWIB or the Order of the Phoenix to the public, or Draco. "Professor Snape assured that I was in no real danger when I agreed to travel to Malfoy Manor. It was to deliver a gift to Voldemort." _Keep it vague, Ella_. "He saw me, he… _liked_ …me, and since he said that I was no longer underaged, I didn't need to return to school. When I tried to escape, I was captured and kept in a cage."

"How did you escape?" asked Daddy, who didn't appear to be angry.

 _Crap_. If Harry and Ron didn't testify that she was there, those two could be tried for perjury. "Dobby the House Elf helped me escape." _Good. Truthful, vague._ "He used to work for the Malfoys. I use the phrase 'work' lightly." _Even better. These are the same people that will push forward on Hermione's House Elf Welfare bill._ "I don't know what I would have done without Dobby's bravery. He was a hero."

"Do you know Dobby's whereabouts now?"

"Last I heard he was in Monaco, having a vacation," answered Ella cooly.

"Dobby the House Elf has rescued many. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Mr. Garrick Ollivander," said Justin. He and Ella exchanged a quick smile. "It's not unusual to believe that he's rescued many from being prisoners of war. Who knows how many House Elves have rescued during the Second Wizarding War?" Minister Shacklebolt smiled. _Thanks, Justin_.

"So you had reason to despise Lucius Malfoy," said another witch.

"It's like Mr. Longbottom said earlier, I can't think of anybody that didn't have reason to despise him." This earned a few laughs. "But I didn't kill him. I thought about it, of course." A few gasps, and she could hear her father 'harumph'-ing to get her to stop. "But you can ask anybody; the way I thought about killing him wouldn't be quiet and subtle; it would be violent. I'd bludgeon someone like him with a broken chair leg. Ask Draco, even. When we all returned to school after the Battle of Hogwarts, he came up and tried to apologize to me—I was so angry that I picked up a pipe from some of the debris and came swinging at him." This earned a few gasps, a few laughs; those that she went to school with didn't do either, for they knew it was true. _I should probably apologize to him for that,_ thought Ella. _If he, a man, tried to do that to me, a woman, he'd be in jail._

"Miss Zamora," began Minister Shacklebolt. "I'm going to now ask: do you have an opinion on who the murderer might be?"

It got serious again; the air felt thick. "It's my opinion, as someone who used to be close to the family, that this crime was committed by someone _also_ close to the family. It had to be made by someone who knew about those apples. You can't just _break_ _in_ to Malfoy Manor."

"But a House Elf did," said another member of the Wizengamot.

"A House Elf couldn't have possibly killed Lucius Malfoy—they love serving too much." Ella felt appalled at the unabashed racism that she'd just heard.

The other members of the Wizengamot exchanged glances, seeing if anyone had any other questions for her. Ella wanted to look to see if her father had any questions, and it was likely that he did, just not the kind that would be answered in a court of law.

"Did you manage to learn anything else from the poison?" asked Daddy. Ella shook her head.

"Nothing other than what was in it."

"Who brewed it?" he then asked. Ella frowned in question. _What a weird thing to ask_.

"Uh—I don't know, someone who knew what they were doing…?" She thought; someone that took the time to take the cyanide out of apple seeds in that way had a lot of time on their hands. "Someone…patient?" Ella's vision went a little soft around the edges as she began to think. "Someone disciplined. Someone who is practiced and restrained." Visions of faces within her Mind Palace began to pass in front of her eyes. A pair of small, feminine hands stuck out in her memory, white as lilies. "Someone…" The hands wrung themselves in a familiar way. "…gentle." A pair of lips, red as blood, stuck themselves out in her mind's eye. "Someone…" They weren't smiling. "…precise." A coat with dragonbone buttons, and a pair of chameleon skin gloves flashed in front of her eyes, soft as a whisper. She shook her head and found herself focused on the people in front of her again, and not lost in her memories. _Don't be ridiculous, Ella. It couldn't be._

"Thank you, Miss Zamora," said Minister Shacklebolt, after a long time. Ella forced a smile and stood up. She turned and walked towards the stands; she felt so many eyes on her that they almost crushed, like feeling a great pressure, like drowning. She silently returned to her seat, the direction of her vision keeping just below eye level with anyone else. Hermione's white hands came over hers.

"Ella," she whispered. "you look as if you've seen a dementor. Are you going to be okay?"

"I don't feel very well," she answered quickly. She gazed ahead, at nothing, afraid to make eye contact with anyone. "I shouldn't have gone out last night."

"Narcissa Malfoy to the stand, please," called her father. Ella glanced down and saw Mrs. Malfoy kiss Draco on the cheek before standing and walking down.

"When are they gonna call Malfoy down?" Ella heard Ron whisper to Harry.

"I expect that he's going last," said Harry. "Prime suspects always go last."

"Shh!" Hermione hissed. "Honestly, you two!" she whispered in horror. "Ella is sitting right here!"

With a tiny giggle through her nose, Ella looked to her right and grinned. "It's okay, guys, really," she whispered. "I welcome _any_ distractions." She then winked at Ron, with her _left_ eye, of course, so Hermione couldn't see that she was winking. She was going to slip Ron Hermione's engagement ring today, after the trial. They'd gone together just last month to the shop to help pick one out, and ended up having something custom made. Shockingly, he'd put aside his pride to allow her to help—he must have realized that his pursuits in the feminine ways of style were severely lacking. He thought the first C in the diamond index was 'cost', for God's sake.

"Please state your name for the Wizengamot," came the Chief Wizengamot's voice, snapping the four of them to attention.

"Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black." Everyone in the room joined Ella in a confused frown. She seemed slightly amused by the confused looks, and that the Wizengamot was too polite to ask for clarification. Surely, they felt rather sorry for her. She was, after all, only a victim.

"Mrs. Malfoy," began the turkey-necked witch. "In your written statements of the events of the 19th, you stated that a family altercation broke out at about 9 pm that evening."

"I did," agreed Mrs. Malfoy.

"Can you tell us what it was about?"

Mrs. Malfoy smiled a tight grin, then took in a breath. "After we had dropped off Miss Astoria Greengrass at her home, Draco became rather quiet. When we arrived back at Malfoy Manor, Lucius stated that Draco was lucky to be rid of Miss Ella Zamora. He then began to say more than a few unkind words about her. That's when Draco told us both that he still loves Miss Zamora."

"And this made Mr. Malfoy angry?"

Her throat visibly tightened. "In a word."

"And how did your son react to his father's anger?" asked a gray-bearded wizard. It was clear that many still thought that Draco killed his father.

"Quite calmly, in fact," answered Mrs. Malfoy. "Draco then told us that he was going to tell Astoria tomorrow that he didn't want to marry her anymore, and that it was unfair of him to keep her with him when he was so obviously in love with another." There was more than enough gossiping and whispering and guffawing for Ella's taste. Draco hadn't ever been anything but vocal about his feelings for her, so why was this such a shock to everyone in the room? She supposed that the elder generations really were that out of touch.

"And how did your husband react?"

"He threatened to disown my son. Draco said he didn't care. I'll never forget it, as long as I live. When Lucius told Draco that he would be without family, that he'd be knutless, that he'd have nothing, my son looked him square in the eye and said 'If I have love, I will _never_ have nothing.'"

Ella looked down to where Draco was sitting in shock, only seeing the back of his silvery-blond head. She could see how tensely he was holding himself up.

"And what happened next?"

"Draco left to pack his things. He was going to leave that very night. I knew he was serious. I begged Lucius to come with me into the parlor so we could talk it out calmly. He agreed." She paused, gulped, then continued. "I finally told him what I thought. I told him that…Draco had endured enough heartache for one lifetime. I told him that we raised our son to expect a lifetime in which he deserved to be happy." Ella couldn't see it, but she could hear it in the way she spoke; there were tears in Mrs. Malfoy's eyes. "That's when Lucius got angry. We began shouting. I realized then that arranged marriages never made anyone in my life truly happy. I then told Lucius that Draco and Ella had something that he and I would never have."

"What would that be, Mrs. Malfoy?" asked the turkey-necked witch. Minister Shacklebolt leaned forward in his seat.

Mrs. Malfoy sat up straighter than she had been sitting before and spoke clear as day. "A deep well of emotion."

The sounds in the room changed; half were obviously feeling scandalized, while the other half were more intrigued. The Chief Wizengamot then spoke. "Go on, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Lucius then… _calmed_ and told me that we needed to make Draco understand that he needed to listen and he needed to remember his place. If he did, all would be as it was." She gulped. "He insisted that everything would go away. He said that Draco was a foolish boy who didn't know what was best for him. And then he said that…" There was a very long pause. "Well, it doesn't matter what he said next. What matters is that Draco slammed the front door so hard that I felt the house shake, and Lucius said that Draco wouldn't last a day on his own. What happened next was that I poured him his brandy and I poisoned him."

Ella screamed. Draco stood up in shock. At least a third of the Wizengamot fell out of their chairs, while the other third began near-shouting, all while the Chief Wizengamot slammed his gavel down again and again, crying "Order! Order in the court!" Hermione's hands went up to her mouth, stunned. Ella flapped down to the railing at Daddy's side, leaning over to call to Mrs. Malfoy, to try and get her to stop; she was speaking clearly and loudly over the commotion.

"I had the poison ready for myself. It was kept in my ring, in case the Dark Lord killed Draco or threatened to kill me. I was planning to die on my own terms. I opened the ring and poured it into Lucius's goblet. I watched him die."

"Narcissa, we can talk about this!" Ella heard Daddy insist over the commotion.

"Mrs. Malfoy!" cried Ella. "Stop!"

"I wrote the suicide note, went up to bed, for a while, then called the Aurors to report that my husband had committed suicide."

"ORDER! I WILL HAVE ORDER IN THIS COURT!"

A din of shouting and cries for justice came from the stands – half of which were shouting for her to be found innocent, which Ella found more than a little surprising. When she looked to her side, she saw that Draco was gone. Her eyes darted around in a panic, and saw no sign of him save the exit door swinging closed. She quickly strode out to find him.

The corridor was eerily empty, and the light from the lamps made it somehow seem like a coffin. She heard footsteps, and then another slammed door. She began to look for him, but then soon realized that he might like to be left alone. Ella then quickly shook her head of that thought, remembering what happened the last time she'd left him alone to his own devices when he was in a distraught mental state. _Only bad things happened._

She walked towards where she thought she'd heard the slammed door, but quickly realized that it wasn't the sound of a door, but an elevator grate. He'd gone up the elevator. _But where would he go_? Ella frowned in thought for a moment, then deduced that he'd likely go somewhere that was familiar, that was safe, and that was solitary. _His office_? It was worth a try.

Draco's office was on the 5th level of the ministry, down through the third door to the right, down the hall, then the second door to the left, then down _that_ hall, and then through the first door on the right, where his secretary would normally sit. She wasn't there, since it was about noon, and time for lunch. Ella wasn't surprised that the door was unlocked. When she pressed her ear against Draco's office door, she could hear his soft sobbing. So, of course, Ella did something very uncharacteristic—knock.

"Come in," Draco's voice called.

The doorknob clicked softly and Ella peeked in. She half-expected the office to be torn apart—she may have thrown everything everywhere were she in his state—but everything was still perfectly in its place. He was lying on the black leather sofa, his left arm draped over his eyes, his right ankle crossed over his left. She gingerly stepped in and closed the door behind her.

"I don't know what to say," she stated. He didn't say anything, or even move. Ella could see, as she stepped closer, that he'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons on his shirt. She sat down on the edge of the sofa, their hips gently bumping together. Her palm caressed the front of his suit jacket, then edged inside to feel the soft pinpoint oxford of his shirt to rub gently across his belly. His skin felt near-feverish from the emotions that were surely boiling within. Ella slowed her breathing to listen to his; he was shaking. "Can I get you anything?"

Draco silently shook his head.

 _We should go back_ , she thought. God only knows what was going on in Courtroom 5. If this were America, what would likely happen was that there would be a retrial of the state vs. Mrs. Malfoy to see how she would be sentenced. Ella wasn't entirely certain of the ins and outs of the British magical government, however, so it was likely a different process. She was beginning to realize that living in such an oddly conservative country – as in, a country with such backwards ways in the legislative process and with a small enough government to be so easily corrupted – wasn't going to be the easiest one. It was already a nightmare getting any kind of respect for her strides forward in lycanthropic treatment, and the amounts of prejudice that Hermione still faced just for being a firstblood witch was appalling. _I guess nobody was getting out of this war unscathed_. She looked to the door. _But we don't have time for this. We need to get back…_

She looked back to Draco, who didn't seem to be keen on moving. "I don't want to leave you…" she began.

"Then don't," he whispered.

"Okay." He didn't see her smile.

Ella felt lost; her father's approach with this type of situation would likely be to remind the person afflicted that they don't have time to be distraught or grieve right then, but that seemed too much for Draco right now. Her eyes went a little out of focus as she went back into her Mind Palace, searching for, perhaps, her mother's advice on things like this. Her mother and Draco were, of course, from a similar background, though not as extreme. She would be the authority on handling pureblood upper-class emotions, wouldn't she?

"Why don't we have shrimp tonight?" she said in an unusually bright voice. Draco lifted his forearm to raise his eyebrow in question. Ella smiled an obviously fake smile, which had far too much teeth showing to be natural. He then sighed out of his nose.

"That would be fine," he said, letting his arm fall to his side and his head turn to look away, staring blankly at the wall of black walnut bookcases, full of historical tomes. His brow furrowed and he closed his eyes.

Ella ran her long fingers through his silvery hair, much thicker and nicer than it used to be, which was thin and greasy in his teen years. It was so funny, the way lycanthropy affected different people. Some lost hair on their head and grew it all over their bodies instead. Some had bones that were becoming more and more brittle with each day. Some of them had even developed asthma, a disease which Ella thought impossible for Wizards to contract. Poor Tracy had developed horrible respiratory problems, and had contracted pneumonia twice in the last six months. Ella wished desperately that Draco would swallow his pride and come to the hospital for a full physical. The only thing she recalled about his changes was his graying skin and repressed appetite…but that could be linked to his emotional state at any given time. _Oh, well_ , _at least you've got the dread out of those locks._

"Why didn't I know?" Draco sighed. Ella frowned. He turned his head to look at her, his gray eyes begging for an answer. "Why didn't I notice, Ella? Am I so blind?"

"Y-You've…" Ella shifted and shrugged. "I don't know. I can't imagine a scenario in which you would have known."

"You would have known," he argued softly. "You notice everything. You would have noticed."

"I swear I didn't!" she whispered in horror.

"Would you have told me if you'd suspected?"

 _"_ What a question…" Ella expressed. "I… I don't know. Maybe if you'd asked me?" He didn't seem satisfied with that answer. " _Papi_ , honestly I've just been trying not to focus on it."

Draco sat up, incredulous. "My father is murdered and you 'tried not to focus on it'?"

"I didn't mean it like that!" cried Ella. "I just…well, you never seemed to want to talk about it outright and I didn't want to push you. It's not exactly an indelicate situation here…"

He sighed through his nose, defeated, and leaned back and looked up at the ceiling; Ella watched as his eyes went out of focus, lost in thought. Another sigh came from his full lips. "She was going to kill herself if the Dark Lord killed me."

A pang hit the American's heart. "Well…" She gulped. "My grandmother could tell you all about wanting to do that." Draco didn't look at her. "She said the worst nightmare a mother can have is burying her child." He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make this about me. It's just…well, if you could just tell me what you need me to say or do for you right now?"

"There's a time-turner," mumbled Draco. "It's somewhere in the vaults of my house." Ella's feathers ruffled, insulted. _He knows how I feel about time-turners!_ "You could use it to go back twenty years or so. You could prevent me from even being born."

" _Ay, papi!_ " Ella scolded. " _Que dijiste_ —how could you even suggest something like that!"

He didn't rise up at all, or even try to fight back. "I've just brought misery to all I touch. I ruined the love between my parents out of my defiance. I ruined Potter's life when all he wanted was to defeat the Dark Lord out of spite and jealousy. I've ruined Astoria's life forever by divorcing her."

" _Basta, güey!_ _'stas loco,_ you psycho? You can't just _ruin_ someone else's life— _y tambien_ you didn't _divorce_ Astoria, you weren't even married to her."

He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Ella, I'm not in the mood to argue today," he sighed. "I killed him. I didn't poison him, but I killed him."

Ella was furious. She was truthfully shocked that she wasn't flipping the couch over in the style of the Incredible Hulk and screaming that he grow up. _We don't have time for this! Your mother is being sentenced right now and we need to get back to Courtroom 5!_ Draco sat up and swung his legs over the side, so that his back was to her. She turned away from him to face his desk, and out the window, fuming.

"Did you ever have milkshakes with him?"

The fury she felt was smacked straight out of her head, like a sopping wet towel, quickly replaced with a cocktail of confusion and shock. Ella turned her head to look over her shoulder, frowning in question. "What? Did I ever have milkshakes with whom?"

"You know exactly whom," he spat, his shoulders visibly tensing beneath his suit jacket. Ella buried a smile within herself—anger was better than apathy.

"A-Ah…" He must have meant Neville. _But why would he care if I had milkshakes with Neville, of all things?_ "No. No, of course not."

"'Of course not,'" he scoffed. "But you went to the movies with him," he shot bitterly.

A wave of realization came over her. _It's about the experiences, isn't it?_ "Well, I love the movies," she began. "I guess I didn't think you'd like the movies, so I've never invited you…"

"You went shopping with him," he then snapped.

"I like to shop!" gasped Ella.

"Shopping was supposed to be something that _we_ did together!"

"That is ridiculous! I shop with everybody—I even shop with my horrible stepsisters!"

"Oh, so nothing we did together means anything to you?"

"That's unfair and untrue! I don't get midnight milkshakes and burgers with anyone else. I've never even _considered_ giving a key to any boyfriend I've ever had. Furthermore…" A small wave of realization crept up her arms, like a rising tide. "He doesn't compare to you." Draco paused his growing rage. "He never wrote me poetry, or letters, or even so much as passed me a note in class. He never drew pictures of us dancing… He never wrote songs; he never paid attention to me like you do." Ella's eyes wandered downward, going out of focus, gazing off at nowhere in particular. "I have mountains of evidence that you actually love me." A beat. "Mountains." With a deep sigh, she closed her eyes in the light of the moment of clarity befallen her. " _Hijole_ …" Her head hung. "I am so sorry, Draco. I've just realized how stupidly unfair I've been to you over the last five years."

Were she not so distraught, she might have been able to hear him frowning by the tone of his voice. "You haven't been unfair to me, darling."

"Yes, I have." She stood up and began to pace. "Holy crap, I have." Mouth open in shock at her own stupidity, she turned to face him. "Draco, I am so, _so_ sorry. I can't believe what a bitch I've been to you. I have literal hundreds of pieces of written proof that you love me and I just treat you like crap."

His eyes were wide open, confused.

"Even now," she sighed. "You just found out that your mother was the one that killed your father, and here I am making it about me." The American looked him square in the eye. "How are you? Are you okay? What can I do for you?"

"No—" He shook his head. "I'm fine. Really."

There was a tight moment, tight like a bra that had too-small a band. "Do… Do you think you're fine enough to go back to Courtoom 5?"

A glimmer of something she hadn't seen of him in a long time flashed behind his eyes; it was a feeling of running and hiding. He didn't let it last, for he straightened his shoulders and flapped his lapels just enough to straighten them. Draco nodded, avoiding her gaze as he rebuttoned his shirt up to the collar and tightened his tie back up. He crossed to the mirror that Ella hadn't noticed before, the one that was hanging just to the right of the door and combed back his hair with his fingers.

"I'm going to make you shrimp and grits tonight," she said. "With a banana cream pie. Mama used to make the cream with meringue whipped into it, so she could make it into a flambé. I haven't ever done it without her help, but I'm game to try if you don't mind how it looks, in case I screw it up. How's that sound?" He smiled at her reflection for a moment, then went back to his reflection, straightening his collar and the shoulders of his suit jacket. "Then, after…" Ella gulped. "Maybe we can go somewhere?"

"Where would we go?" He seemed uninterested, preoccupied with adjusting his appearance.

 _Somewhere out of the country,_ thought Ella. _Somewhere out of Europe_. "How about New York City?" Draco tensed, but it wasn't the kind of tense that he got when he _didn't_ want something—that was when his torso tightened up—but the kind of tense that he got when you mentioned something that he secretly wanted but would never say so out loud—which was when his shoulders tensed. "There is _nothing_ like summer in New York City. We could see the Empire State Building, visit where the MACUSA is and see the Salem Museum. We can see the Flatiron building and the San Remo. We can go dancing in SOHO. Ooh! We can visit Chelsea Market and eat ourselves sick. We'll stay at the Baccarat; Mama used to take me there for afternoon tea. What do you say?"

He turned his head and grinned at her. "Whatever you like, darling." He opened the door and gestured out. "After you."

 _How can you be so calm?!_ Ella put on a smile. "Okay." And they walked together towards the elevator. "Can I ask you something?" Draco looked over at her. "Why were you going to New York City the morning that they caught you?" He looked away, exasperated, with cheeks that were flushed in a pinky shade of embarrassment. "Tell me."

His spindly fingers pressed the elevator button. "You can't laugh," he blurted.

Ella's eyebrows tilted up in question. "I promise I won't."

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. They stepped in. "I was going to try out for the Quidditch team." The doors slammed and it slantways and high-ways up.

Her head reeled. "In NYC?" she asked, incredulous. "There's no team in—" A memory of a poster she'd seen once while in Greenwich village flashed in her mind. "Wait, you don't mean the Blue Jays." Draco avoided her gaze. "The _Brooklyn_ Blue Jays? They're the worst team in history!" Ella protested. "The only reason they even still exist is because New Yorkers are notoriously and obnoxiously stubborn. They _really_ suck." The elevator dinged, counting the floors. "Why pick the worst team?"

"Whether they're bad or not, they're not here."

"Can't argue with that…" admitted Ella. "I guess you'll be guaranteed Seeker if you do. You've actually _won_ quidditch matches. When are tryouts?"

He breathed in through his nose. "They, er—they've already passed, just last week."

"Last week? Why didn't—?" The elevator doors opened, and the sounds of cameras snapping photos, questions being shouted, and more clamor than likely necessary was giving evidence to Mrs. Malfoy being taken out of court. Spirit grew in Ella's heart. "We'll see what we can do."

* * *

WOW! HAHAHA WHOOOOOO!

Okay, TONS of changes. I will say that I never considered Neville as a possible suspect, myself, but one of my readers suggested it and I frankly couldn't resist. We see a lot of emotions running high on Ella's front, and a lot of anguish and anger between herself and her father. Father-daughter relationships are complicated and messy, so it was fun to kind of explore that. Yeah, Ella's dad is a jackass, but you'll see why.

We're nearing the end of our tale, soon. Probably only four or five more chapters. I'll still keep writing, of course, and likely with these same characters, so you get to see more of Ella's world and more of Ilvermorny, I hope.

Sorry for the long-ass delay. Here's hoping I'll get the next few chapters out sooner rather than later. As always, thank you so much to all of my faithful readers for reviewing. I love you guys so much. We'll hear about Draco's feelings soon. His chapter is coming up, which will pick up almost-immediately after this moment, so you'll get a little closure in his goodbyes to Narcissa - or will they be goodbyes? Either way, you'll get some good stuff soon. I'll write something lighthearted and fun as a palate cleanser in the next chapter, pinkie swear.


End file.
